The Other Kingdom
by RainbowSprinkleDonuts
Summary: It starts with friends with benefits, no more no less. All it takes is one year in New York City to complicate these sorts of arrangements, and a love this steeped in history was never simple to begin with.
1. Diane Young

_Notes:_ _Few things changed. First of many little changes to canon, Quinn goes to NYU, not Yale._

**...**

**January 2015**

The music and the thrumming of a city refusing sleep radiated from the very pavement Quinn teetered on as she stumbled across the disjointed sidewalk squares of Williamsburg, in the ever gentrifying Brooklyn. The ground was littered with plastic cups and noisemakers and all other manner of glittery paraphernalia that swam before Quinn's intoxicated vision in a delightful kaleidoscope of shapes and colors. The cacophony of inebriated exclamations pierced the unforgiving winter air, proclaiming the fresh hours of a new year. To be honest, she couldn't quite discern whether it was from the few stragglers cavorting through the early morning streets or if it was merely the echo from their evening still ringing in her ears.

"Pick up the pace, Quinn, I'm freezing my tits off here."

It was then she realized that her exposed, and very cold, hands were wrapped around something, or someone rather. She dropped her head onto the accompanying shoulder and laughed for no apparent reason.

"Santaaaaanaaaaaa," she whined, followed by a thick chuckle on her escort's part. The arm around her waist tightened, and she was being guided up something, a curb maybe.

"Come on, Fabray, I know you're not _that_ drunk," Santana said, veering them both sharply left down a side street, that signaled familiarity bells in Quinn's head. Long gone were the muffled chants from behind the steamed up windows of dive bars as the street stretched quiet and docile before them. The street lights bathed the tar in burnt citrus light, illuminating the sides of trash bins and the occasional mouse.

Quinn pulled herself up to full height using the body next to her, and sighed, knowing she was able to at least retain her basic motor functions and put one high-heeled foot in front of the other.

"Home sweet hooome!" chimed Santana. She left Quinn standing on her own, so she replaced Santana with the brick wall of the enclave encompassing their door while Santana fumbled with the keys.

"HAPPY FUCKING NEW YEAR!"

Someone looking vaguely her age with a fleece and a backwards hat was careening towards her with his hand held above his head. Quinn limply held up her hand, which was high-fived with such force by the passing man that it nearly knocked her over into a fit of more giggles. Thank god Santana was there to brace her.

"Easy does it with the socializing, Q," Santana teased, as she coaxed Quinn through the now open door.

After laughing and stumbling and Santana all but carrying a petulant Quinn up the last flight of stairs, they finally tumbled into the apartment. Their booze soaked laughter echoed in the spacious main room, as did the door when Quinn shut it behind her mainly using her dead body weight.

Through the inky darkness Quinn could make out the creases of Santana's smile only inches from her face as she pressed her against the door. She knew that look. Her body already warm from the alcohol running through her blood, her veins began to hum. The heel of her hand slipped on the door handle as she tried to steady herself.

"Hi," Santana purred.

"Hi," Quinn mumbled before curling her hands around the nape of her companion's neck and planting one on her without warning. She could feel Santana shift to support Quinn literally hanging off of her neck, and before she knew it, her dress was hiked up and her legs were hooked onto hips.

It was a mess of misguided teeth and tongue and nails, gripping at and digging into everything. Quinn felt the vibration of a moan caught in Santana's mouth as it was latched onto her now bare shoulder as Quinn rolled her hips forward, arching off the cool metal door. Her hands were useless in Santana's hair somewhere when she felt lips on her ear.

"My room," they breathed, barely audible above Quinn's own shortness of breath. Quinn mentally thanked the Broadway world for being so financially generous to Rachel so they could move into a bigger apartment with 3 proper bedrooms. It certainly came in handy, for activities like this.

Perhaps a little overeager, Quinn let go of Santana completely and almost fell right to the floor on her jelly legs. Yeah, about those supposed motor skills. She was barely caught with a round of laughter from both of them as Santana jokingly dragged Quinn to the bedroom with most of her flimsy jacket trailing behind her.

"Suuuper sexy, Quinn," she mocked, pushing Quinn backwards so the backs of her knees were knocking against the edge of Santana's bed frame. She pressed their bodies together by the power of her palm on the small of Quinn's back. Quinn couldn't help but lean into it, Santana's hold on her was downright dizzying. Her fingers played with the straps of Santana's dress, reveling in the fabric passing between her fingers as she slid them up and down.

"No? Didn't do it for you?" Quinn baited, cocking her head to the side, or at least she attempted to. It probably looked more like it lolled to the side with her undone hair flopping this way and that. Santana's thin lipped smile gave her that impression at least. So, Quinn resorted to the only way she knew to get control back; she reached back, and tugged her zipper down. The sound alone made Santana's eyes darken and her hands bunch at the lamé fabric on Quinn's hips.

"How about this?" Quinn asked, her voice thick and her jaw slack. She didn't dare break eye contact as her dress pooled at her waist with the flick of the last shoulder strap, and Santana lunged forward, simultaneously searing her lips with a hungry open mouth kiss and shoving the rest of the dress down to the hardwood floor.

Quinn's vision was a blur again, this time with the flash of Santana's (predictably) scarlet dress flying over her head and the laughable attempts at undergarment removal with tequila fingers. Eventually, the snickering gave way to less audible murmurs and noises that, much to Kurt and Rachel's relief, tend to disappear into the crook of Santana's neck.

**...**

Santana let the hand holding her phone fall onto the bedsheets listlessly, followed by a frustrated sigh. She eyed Quinn's haphazard sleeping form with envy. Her pale skin reacted well to the glow of the dawn poking through the cracks in her curtain, and it let her make out the angles of Quinn's knees and arms bent in all directions. Her blond hair a voluminous encasement around the head that was facedown in the pillow. The first few times she'd seen Quinn sleep like that Santana had to lift her head up to make sure she was breathing. She was sure she'd read somewhere that the worst possible way to sleep was on your stomach.

Yet here Quinn was, sprawled out on two thirds of the bed and dead to the world like a blown out fuse, without a care. Santana, on the other hand, was wide awake, searching for sleep desperately in the shadows on her ceiling. She'd sobered up considerably, and was now slowly encroaching on the waking hours much to her annoyance.

It was kind of something, though, watching the first signs of daylight on the first day of what would be the 21st year of her life. She leaned over the gap between her bed and her only window to pull back the curtain just a little. The hodgepodge of buildings that comprised Brooklyn was surprisingly lovely at this hour, what with the sunlight slowly crawling across those stubborn remaining rooftop snow lumps and steam rising from those odd pipes you alway see sticking out with little tin hats. The whole scene imbued Santana with some diluted sense of existentialism, and although it was completely foreign, it wasn't unwelcome. The dusting of lavender creeping across the sky was soothing and was entirely hers at this ungodly hour.

She bent her wrist slowly in either direction to stretch out the strain from her and Quinn's aerobic activities a few hours prior. A satisfied smirk slid across her lips. She had a talent, that no one could deny. A spent Quinn Fabray, once the Chastity Queen of the Christian Society, currently sedated by her sex overload was evidence enough to persuade any nonbelievers. It was unfair how her talents were spent on one outlet, although Quinn was quite appreciative every time. Still, Santana was hardly unattractive in any way, and could be handed the best that queer NYC had to offer on a silver platter if she snapped her fingers. Yet she waded in the past in the form of her former cheerleading co-tyrant. What could she say, wallowing in the taste of victory hadn't gotten old since the first go around with the ice queen and hey, if it ain't broke

She felt her features soften; the beginnings of sleep settling in. Whatever she was doing, this reflective crap, it tired her mind. So she nestled back into the mound of pillows she'd somehow accrued through Kurt's constant redecorating of his room. Her gaze settled back on Quinn absentmindedly. What is it that people do on New Years?

Resolutions, she supposed. But Santana was impossible with promised habits of change. In high school, she made it a point, even, that she was unapologetically refusing to evolve. Santana Lopez was Santana Lopez and there were no areas for improvement. She hadn't changed much since then, true to form. She's been considered not quite tame, but rather disinterested in the freaks of New York. They were all so confident here and full of camaraderie and rising above and all that bullshit. Turned Santana off faster than morning wood.

She shook the sheet up around her from it's bunched heap at her feet, and by consequence, covered Quinn as well. Shame, she lamented, the view was nice.

Sleep was coaxing her into oblivion now. Her head sunk into the down, her neck giving way to the weight of it and letting it fall to the side. As her cheek hit the cotton, she was at a close enough distance to notice a little bundle of blonde strands that were trumpeting up slightly, and then floating back down atop Quinn's obscured face. A sign that Quinn is still among the living, and that was the final layer of peace that wooed Santana into sleep.

As her eyes drooped shut, a thought flitted across her mind; people also say that how you spend your New Year's is how you spend the rest of your year. Santana weighed the idea. She took inventory of the nights events, of her body deliciously sore, and her blonde bedfellow equally as satisfied.

Spend the next 12 months having mind-blowing sex with Quinn Fabray?

Could be worse.

**...**

The wafting of hot breakfast seduced Santana from her coma of exhaustion long after daylight had permeated her room at every angle. The banging of her heating pipe did the rest, although less gently than the pancakes. With a sigh and a stretch, she dragged her hand down her face and looked over at Quinn. Still asleep. Her mouth curled into a jealous snarl of disbelief at Quinn's luck in her infinite slumbers.

"Q," she mumbled into the pillow.

No response.

"Quinn, get up."

Radio silence. She did get a little snore out of her. Santana chuckled.

She swung her legs out from under the covers and went about gathering something to wear. Through her raucous movements, she would look periodically to see if Quinn stirred, but to no avail. Finally, once she was dressed she tossed a pillow at Quinn's head. That elicited a groan.

"Come on, Q, there's food out there," she coaxed. She only got another groan. "I'll make you your emergency coffee; black with a few scoops of crack and a B12 syringe on the side?" Nothing this time. So, Santana ditched the heap of bedsheets and pale limbs for her growling stomach.

The kitchen was laid out like they were having a three course meal. The mismatched plates were stacked in the center of the apartment's long wooden table that divided the living space and kitchen, flanked by piles of silverware, a pitcher each of orange juice and water, and a cluster of glasses hidden behind. It was abuzz with the sizzling of grease and the thwacking of Rachel cutting fruit and enthusiastic humming, because god forbid there not be music in some form around.

Kurt was a sight to behold at the stove, the source of the humming, with his back to Santana, as Rachel fluttered around him filling the air with her sing-song voice. His hair stuck out in all directions, there seemed to be a crushed flower behind his ear, and his pajamas were so askew that his left sleeve drooped over his hand so it looked like he had a prosthetic spatula for an arm.

Rachel's face lit up with that broadway smile as Santana plodded across the room, bleary eyed.

"Oh, morning Santana! Do you want any coffee? I made some. And I'm making fruit salad and also…"

Santana held her hand up to halt the words spilling from Rachel's mouth.

"Lets take the volume to a 5, shall we Berry? Also direct me to this coffee you speak of," she said, her flat voice subduing Rachel, who smiled warmly as she brought Santana to the coffee pot.

"Will that be two or three pancakes for the karaoke queen?" piped Kurt. Santana threw herself into one of the chairs on the other side of the table, the wobbly one, which took her by surprise.

"Look, I told you not to get me started because I can't be stopped. I'm like a Kardashian; the attention only makes my ego bigger. As well as my ass," Santana replied, sipping gingerly on her coffee.

"That's for fucks sure," Kurt cried, whipping his spatula arm around and getting flecks of batter on the refrigerator. Santana snorted into her coffee.

"Hey Little Edie, are you still drunk?" Santana asked.

Kurt spun around on his heel, and picked up his coffee cup which sloshed a bit, much to Rachel's visible chagrin.

"Snake that bit ya, know what I'm sayyyying?" he slurred. Santana merely held up her mug to him in solidarity, and he winked at her, before withering slightly under Rachel's glare and returning to his pancake duty.

Santana smirked to herself, and added, "I'll take a two stack, Lady Hummel."

"Same here and make it snappy."

Mercedes joined Santana at the table in a huff of exhaustion, to whom Kurt delivered an obedient yet wobbly salut. A bewildered expression struck Mercedes face, as she turned to Santana who merely shrugged.

"Look who slummed it last night in divvy Brooklyn, Miss Popstar," remarked Santana, turning towards her table companion.

"Yeah, you know, got to stay connected to the people," Mercedes replied, followed by a hearty laugh breaking the ruse. "Girl, why you got two coffee cups? Is your hangover that bad?"

Santana opened her mouth to respond, her eyes drifting to her now open door and a very grumpy Quinn making her way towards them. Santana lifted the second coffee mug into her outstretched hand and smiled amusedly up at her. The chair creaked under the sudden weight of Quinn, who was curling herself around her mug as if it were her life force. If she was capable of coherent speech, she would probably argue that it was.

"Morning Quinn," Santana said warmly, with a little playful sarcasm sprinkled on top.

"Mmmm," Quinn grunted in response, and took gulps of her tepid coffee.

"You're always so chipper in the morning," Santana commented, before doing the same.

Quinn shot her a good natured scowl, and scanned the table, before asking, "Where is the food, you said there'd be food?"

"Coming right up! What can I get ya, Susie Q?" Kurt called from behind her.

Quinn turned and nearly choked on her coffee at Kurt's sartorial deconstruction.

"Uh, three please," she managed to get out through her coughing and incredulous grin.

"Threeee it is!" Kurt shouted. He twirled his spatula above his head and moved his hips to match. He unfortunately knocked into Rachel who was already exasperated.

"Kurt! I swear to God, I have a knife in my hand!" she chided, wielding said weapon in his face.

Quinn turned back to Santana and asked, "Is he still drunk?" Santana eyes fell shut in exasperation, her head shaking side to side. She greeted Mercedes and the table sipped quietly on their beverages. A serenity overcame Quinn amidst the company of her friends. She fingered her little gold cross around her neck, a habit unintentionally employed to fill the pauses in her life with meaning, or so Santana had always said.

"I swear, living with them, it's like baby's first day out the womb. Every day," Santana groaned. "But hey, they aren't to blame. Not everyone had the same street savvy upbringing I did on _las calles malas_."

Quinn chortled into her coffee. "Is that so?" she mocked. Santana shrugged smugly, and smiled at Quinn like it was some grand inside joke they shared.

Mercedes, having seen the entire exchange, looked between the two of them, and was about to give her two cents, when Kurt made some sort of indiscernible noise resembling a foghorn, and announced that the pancakes were ready. Santana leaped up with a plate in hand to get first dibs. Rachel made some fuss about syrup and Mercedes took advantage of their solitude at the table.

"Quinn," she murmured, "Santana's room? What the hell is that?"

Quinn laughed uncharacteristically, shaking the hair out of her face, and scoffed, "Nothing serious, I assure you. And I was as surprised as you are when it first started."

"Well last I checked, you both left the bar because your feet hurt, which was a shitty lie. So, I'm gonna need a better explanation than that," Mercedes pressed, crossing her arms on the table and giving her a raised brow.

Quinn shrugged, "I don't think there is one, we just mess around. You know I don't have the time for anything, and Santana doesn't have the emotional range, so we, you know..." Quinn paused, to lap at her drink. "...fill the gap." She popped her 'p' for effect.

Mercedes screwed her face up at the overshare, and Quinn laughed at her reaction. Clearly regretting pushing the matter, Mercedes left table in pursuit of pancakes. Quinn felt silk covered arms descend around her and a plate of hot pancakes with a pat of butter on top appeared before her.

"Aww, thanks Kurt," she cooed, looking up to see him attempt a wink quite tragically. She was joined shortly afterwards by everyone else, plates stacked full of fluff and syrup. A plate of bacon appeared and the bowl of Rachel's fruit followed, covering the table with aromas that made Quinn's eyes want to roll into the back of her head. The clank of cups being distributed and the slosh of orange juice being poured mingled with the harmonious din of everyone's voices layered over one another as the meal began.

Kurt proposed a toast, with his arm steadied by Rachel who eyed her roommate with reluctant affection. He babbled about how great everyone is doing, about preserving the Glee club to some degree, to which Santana frowned in distaste at why they always had to include that crap, and finally, to the new year.

"To the new year!" the group repeated. They clinked their glasses to the prospect and as Santana's glass met Quinn's, her eyes dropped to the t-shirt Quinn was wearing that she had mindlessly grabbed from Santana's dresser. Regarding that fact, Santana pursed her lips and winked over the line of cups, which ignited a warm flush up Quinn's neck and across her cheeks. Quinn smiled down at her plate, annoyed that a flirtatious wink from her nympho best friend had that effect on her. She was grateful that everyone was more hungry than attentive at the moment as they ripped into their food.

You know what? Fuck it. To the new year, because, honestly, why not?


	2. Worship You

**February 2015**

A rhythmic squeal erupted from the joints of Santana's wrought iron bed as Quinn's fingers curled around the bars like ivy around a garden post, bringing the head board's movement into sync with the rolling arch of her exposed body. Soft groans flew from her throat to join the squeaks, her head pressing deep into the pillow with her eyes clenched shut. The familiar mounting of something beneath her stomach triggers the canting of her hips to speed up, to meet this impending force with all the energy she can mus…

It hits her, a blinding break in her consciousness, and steals a gasp on it's way out. A pair of hands hold her hips down from what must have been an unpleasant sudden movement for the head between her legs. Her brain stalled, ridden with static, as her muscles tensed and a voice reverberated around the room that she wasn't capable of registering as her own.

Eventually, her breathing slowed, her senses gradually picked up on their surroundings and her eyes flew open, contracting in the morning light. A creeping of kisses was moving up her stomach, and Quinn looked down to meet Santana's insatiable expression from between her thighs. Her mouth cracked a grin.

A gust of air expelled from her recovering lungs, and Quinn uttered, "Unf, I mean, fuck me, San." Santana wrapped her hands around Quinn's thighs and squeezed them before wiping her mouth and crawling up beside her. It was the languorous crawl of a girl who knew her worth, and Quinn relished it. The visual stood as a reminder of what she had at her fingertips, a girl as inexhaustible as Santana Lopez who had put an end to Quinn's voyeurism by pulling the displaced sheet around her.

"Well, that's what we should be doing but you won't let me kiss you in the morning until you brush your teeth," Santana grumbled. She rolled on her side, and propped her head up on her elbow, the sheet drooping to reveal just enough to snag Quinn's eye. It's true, it was one of Quinn's rules. To be fair, as far as these sort of arrangements go, there weren't many rules to begin with, so to Quinn it was a fair request. Everything else was fair game. The couch. The table. The wall of the shower.

Quinn sidled up to her and looked her squarely in the eye, and purred, "You don't need to kiss me to fuck me." She put on her best smug facade, but she did flick her eyes down to Santana's lips, parted and very tempting.

Santana scoffed, and her hand grasped Quinn's shoulder firmly.

"Now, Quinnie," she said sternly, "don't cheapen yourself like that. You're worth more than a half-assed roll in the sack. You're worth a full fledged fucking, complete with lip service and a few solid minutes of groping." Santana shook Quinn's shoulder as she spoke, her smile breaking through.

Quinn grasped Santana's hand and brought it back down onto the bed.

"Thanks for the confidence boost," she replied, the laughter not yet gone from her voice. Santana nodded curtly.

"Oh any time. Now," she said with a clap. "I think it's time we ventured out into the world to see if it's gone to shit without us."

Quinn pulled the covers up over her head as she fell back into the pillows, her objection muffled. Santana grabbed her bra that hung precariously off the bedpost and slung it around her shoulders before clasping it in one fell swoop.

"We've spent the past week in either your bed or mine, every night, fucking like rabbits," Santana reasoned, slipping on a pair of jeans.

"And?" 13 year old Quinn tended to make an appearance when she was denied what she wanted. Santana sat down on the bed, still with no shirt, and peeled the duvet back from Quinn's pouting face.

"Aaaand, you have a day without classes or some midterm, or whatever, for the first time in forever, don't waste it, Q," Santana scolded. She stared her down until Quinn rolled her eyes and sighed.

"Fine! You're right, you're right," she relented. "Throw me something."

Santana turned in her seat on the edge of the mattress and bent down to rifle through a pile of sweaters she that she was certain were half Quinn's. Upon finding a recognizable bulky hunter green one, she sat up, and felt her bare back collide with warm skin. Her body tensed at the sudden contact, and arms snaked around her middle to pull her back slightly into Quinn's embrace.

"I'll go out today," Quinn whispered in her ear, husky and brushing her lips against a reddening lobe ever so slightly. "If you promise to continue where we left off when we get back." A fuzzy haze settled over Santana's thoughts to the effect of Quinn dragging the pliable cartilage of her ear in between her teeth. The same haze that sent Santana's hands wandering when Quinn woke her up in the middle of the night on Tuesday and started walking her fingers up Santana's thigh under the covers. Also the very fog that compelled Santana to bend Quinn over the back of the couch Friday afternoon and rip her tights open with her new manicure, when Berry and Hummel were out shopping. Quinn kept dropping her scarf around the apartment, and bending over painfully slowly to pick it up.

Santana may have the technique to make a woman come undone, but Quinn could seduce a nun to murder if the desire ever struck her.

They piled on all of the winter accessories they could find, Santana borrowing Rachel's glove/mitten contraptions despite grousing about the unfortunate pink and orange color combination on the entire walk to the L train. The glory of a weekday excursion was not lost on them, especially on a frigid day such as this, which reduced the masses of aimless tourists to a manageable level. There were seats in abundance on the subway, sidewalk traffic flowed with remarkable efficiency, not to mention the surreal nature of it all, like each hour was on loan from some parallel universe. It was as though they were reclaiming the city and were finally able to enjoy it's spoils free of invaders. Ask any New Yorker who has ever had a weekday off. They'll vehemently agree.

The girls traversed the labyrinth of Union Square station to hop onto a well timed Q train that shot up to the southeastern corner of Central Park. Santana wanted to cartwheel down the train car. There was certainly room.

Ice skating at Wollman rink was the chosen activity of the day, also in the spirit of a reduced tourist population. It was a fine day for it. Quinn marveled silently at the veins of the dormant trees cracked across the pale blue sky, swaying in the light breeze. Clouds migrated lazily amongst the buildings, traveling in dense tufts as even they weren't immune to the chill. The two leaned leisurely against the waist high walls while the zamboni made it's sweeping circles around the rink, before following the gaggle of eager skaters out onto the fresh ice.

The sun hopped from cloud to cloud at the high point of the midafternoon, illuminating the puffs of hot air being propelled from Santana's mouth as she shouted after her elusive best friend. Quinn's childhood of excessive ice skating parties showed when she was doing laps around Santana, who hugged the sides. As she glided across the glistening surface, the crisp air flying by her cheeks and the weightless momentum carrying her around the curves, she could barely contain her glee at seeing her former co-captain so terrified. The parades of little kids excusing themselves in all languages to pass Santana only accentuated it. Even Santana had to laugh in spite of herself at Quinn very obviously enjoying every second of her humiliation.

"There are _knives_ on my _feet!_" she exclaimed when Quinn attempted to pry her from the plastic wall. She was contributing wonderfully to the smattering of nicks along the bottom from the thousands of other uncoordinated skaters. Santana's countenance of stricken determination made it terribly difficult to get any words of soothing guidance out as Quinn fell to pieces at the sight of it. Eventually, Quinn was able to lure her out onto the open ice. She white knuckled Quinn's hand the whole time, but they made it around the rink quite a few laps within the hour. She kept mumbling and grumbling how her "people" were about sand not snow, and that she was not genetically inclined for this sort of death defying thing.

Eventually, as she does, Santana overestimated her learning curve and insisted she be released to make it on her own. There was never anything anyone could do at that point. Just watch and get ready to clean up the mess.

It ended just as Quinn feared; the clicking of Santana's blades clipping and the arms pinwheeling before she hit the ice with a resounding grunt of frustration. Quinn hockey stopped beside Santana's head and didn't bother to suppress her tongue-in-teeth grin looking down at her fallen friend. Her hair was fanned out around her head and her limbs had all succumbed to their defeat. Quinn would have this up on Instagram in a second if her phone was readily available.

"Get me. Off. This fucking. Glacier." The words sliced through her gritted teeth. Santana maintained a vicegrip on Quinn's arm, out of fear or revenge, some combination of the two, as they coasted to the edge and found a bench to retire to. Their appendages were all chilled to the bone and the tiny gold cross around Quinn's neck was nearly frosted over.

"You were doing so well— " Quinn lauded, as they approached 59th street to head down 6th Avenue.

"Oh, please. You enjoyed every second of that. We will never speak of it again, Fabray," Santana curtly spat. She pushed her aviators further up her nose, and tugged down her hat. The white walk sign appeared across the way, and Quinn dragged her pouting friend forward, before the wall of stagnant cars and trucks, expelling clouds of exhaust behind them. Maybe she did enjoy watching Santana meet her match. Quinn could be sadistic. There were probably a handful of miscreants picking sticky slush from their hair still who would vouch for that. Those instances with Santana, however, were so far and few, she had to soak them in when she was lucky enough to witness them.

It was only a few blocks before the pair sought refuge through a revolving door and into the lounge of Le Parker Meridien, where the gust of insulated air left their frostbitten cheeks pleasantly tingling. The corridor stretched out grandly before them with plush seating lining the walls, and the skyward reach of the ceilings accentuated by the mirrors running up them, cut smartly in the shapes of wood paneling. They seated themselves quite easily in one of the sinking couches, and piled their hats and gloves and other woolen items beside them to huddle in the center. Thier knees knocked together while they held a menu between them to choose from.

A snooty waiter took their order, and they relaxed into their hideaway. Warm air toasted the feeling back into their legs, emanating from an unseen source beneath the couch. Cascading down the walls, opulent scarlet drapes, secured with oversized gold tassels, seemed to cocoon the room. A veritable oasis in the arctic tundra beleaguering the city this year. They picked out a few patrons to slander, Santana fabricating the most outlandish possibilities, and Quinn surprising her best friend with her crass in between her bouts of muffled laughter.

Eventually, the waiter brought Quinn her tea and Santana a hot chocolate that required tableside presentation. The one where they pour the milk over the chocolate and all that. Santana sat transfixed while the chocolate took to the milk like paint on canvas, saturating it with a rich mocha color, while Quinn dropped two sugar cubes into her cup. She had a feeling Santana would get a kick out of that. She supposed it was a fair tradeoff for the embarrassment she put Santana through. They both took long regretful slurps of their beverages, but they hardly minded the scalding liquid burning their tongues. Heat was heat at this point.

Quinn peered at Santana over her teacup as she happily gulped at her drink.

A darting of her tongue to swipe her chocolate lips and Santana asked, "Jesus, what now?"

"Hot chocolate. Really." Quinn took a dainty sip of disdain.

"Oh, don't sit there all smug, Fabray," Santana scoffed, without missing a beat.

Quinn laughed her way arrogantly into a breathy, "Yeah?"

"You think you're hot shit with your tea and your sugar cubes, all classy and whatnot. Hate to break it to you, but you look like an uptight bitch," Santana began. She received a patented Quinn Fabray eyeroll at that elaboration. Indisputable superiority denouncing the subject entirely all in one quick ocular arc. It was the ghost of the high school cheer captain floating to the surface, always imposing her skyward nose where it was unwanted. Lets not forget the tight smile, equally as halting. Santana hardly flinched, not unused to such special treatment.

"Maybe I'm not a sex-crazed nympho like you, not everyone is, you know," Quinn finally retorted, although her tone and pointed stare dragged her opinion with it, as the answer she'd already decided. Santana's hot chocolate seemed to cleanse her of her resentment towards Quinn's snide remarks. With each sip, her spine stretched itself out leisurely on the sofa, like a taut ball of yarn unwinding itself inch by inch.

"Q, first of all, nympho means sex-crazed so maybe lay off the big fancy words for a while, and second of all, I highly doubt that," Santana replied. She did a sweep of Quinn's pin straight body with her charcoal eyes. Might as well practice what she preaches.

Quinn, ever insistent on making her point, tried not to lose her momentum, "Whatever, so I'm uptight because I drink tea? That's absurd."

Santana took a long drag on her mug of steaming chocolate. She smacked her lips, exalting the quality of the beverage.

"Exactly," she confirmed, "Besides the fact that it makes you look as fuckable as an eighty year old wooden dildo found in grandma's attic, right now, my sweet chocolatey lips are primed and ready to make out with anyone in this room. If someone, by some miracle, found you attractive, the first thing they get to taste is your sour dead grass hippie breath. You would need a mint or six before anyone locked lips with you."

Quinn's drew another sip of the scalding liquid past her lips, her eyes narrowing in search of a rebuttal, but all she could scrape together was a haughty, "Is that so?"

"Well, you're more than welcome to put it to the test," Santana offered, suggestively leaning forward and gesturing vaguely to her lips in a Vannah White fashion. Leave it to Santana to jump on every opportunity to make out.

"Tempting, but I'll pass," she declined. Santana shrugged back into her blasé lounge position.

"Whatevs. I bet kissing you would be like kissing the old bag over there." She waved her thumb at an older woman, waspy no doubt, in her stately suit across the way. She poured her tea and scowled at their general existence. However, that only provoked Santana to blow her a kiss, to which the woman bristled and turned away in a huff of "how _dare_ she!"

Santana beamed at her successful antagonizing. Quinn scolded her in good fun. The latter went to sip from her cup and found it curiously drained. Funny how time escapes her, consumed by the flames of her mirth, while in Santana's company.

The thought tumbled into the crevices of Quinn's mind, where all her fanciful notions are ushered, while she placed the silver strainer gingerly, and poured herself another cup.

**...**

"We wanted Oregon Pinot Noir, not the Italian!"

Santana spun on her heel, her hair whipping her in the face, and put on her best condescending smile.

"Oh, my apologies, guys!" she said, sickly saccharine enough to cause cavities, "I thought you were after a more sophisticated palate. Won't make that mistake again!"

The table took it just as she hoped they would, taken aback but too flustered to respond before she slipped through the crowded dining room and through the kitchen doors. Door, singular actually, due to the stereotypically cramped size of the restaurant. She slipped past the steel tables and between the cooks shuffling amongst each other not unlike a deck of cards. The wine room's slim glass door swung open with ease and she barely needed to push half her torso in to grab the bottle she sought.

It was so fucking ridiculous, and her exasperation showed plainly on her face. She hated these people, the downtown yuppies that stuffed this godforsaken place with their tweed blazers and their shirts unbuttoned halfway down. Girls, on daddies dime, draped with whatever bohemian dress shirt combination they just pulled off some rack at Scoop and voices that make nails on a chalkboard sound melodic. There were those guys getting martinis, which was the most laughable practice of them all, especially come summer when the place whips up watermelon ones. What a fucking joke. Sometimes it wasn't so bad when a pair of roommates just wanted to treat themselves to an overpriced plate of bolognese, and sometimes it was worse when their parents were in town.

Santana preferred to hang back here with the kitchen staff. In the steam and cacophony of pots thrown about, they shared her values, just like they shared the rejected open bottle of wine between them now, each taking greedy swigs as it reached their hand. They hardly spoke to her, and she to them, and those were Santana's favorite type of co workers. All of that might have been due to a language barrier but she was none the wiser for lack of ever trying to communicate.

Santana barely noticed a blonde ponytail poking itself through the door gap before she heard it.

"San, table 14 wants their check. Haul ass, mamasita," shouted Becca. Her full body slid into the florescent light and she perched a bony hand on her leopard hip. Santana straightened her own leopard dress, the ones all the waitresses donned. They actually had a rotation, each day of the week the manager picked a different dress. For Santana, being instructed to buy seven dresses at three quarters of the price upon hire was hardly a chore. The perverse fact that they were all skin tight and all stopped below her bountiful ass could be overlooked.

She followed Becca out onto the floor. The dense atmosphere of liquored conversation and collective body heat barraged her senses, almost creating a dreamy haze of the space that was made up of sectioned off alcoves of wobbly rustic tables. Handing off the bottle of Oregon and instructions to another server, Santana sauntered over to the moony-eyed young couple that occupied table 14. Check, please, and here's the card. Right. She knew that look, the one where they wanted the check settled _urgently_ so they could scamper on off to most likely his place where they will go at it on a bed of rosepetals listening to Bruno Mars.

God, she hated this holiday.

The evening carried on for another two hours of polished off bottles of red, shared bruschettas, giggly hair flipping, a few ass grabs, albeit a surprisingly low number for the usual average, before she had shooed out all but her last two tables. The dining rooms were hushed and the candles flickered happily on the last of their wax. She was at the home stretch, and the final hour was always the most gratifying coast to freedom.

Becca and Santana held down the fort, both sitting at the bar sipping on some concoction the bartender mixed together. It hardly mattered what it was at this point. She was already 3 drinks to the… breeze or whatever the saying was.

She pushed herself off the plush stool to do a round, offer water refills, plates to be cleared, the like. Satisfied with her service, her patrons dismissed her and she had all but rounded the divider between the bar and the tables when she saw a blonde, not dressed in leopard, occupying her seat. An irrepressible grin tugged at her lips.

She strolled over and sat down next to the new customer, tilting her head to get her attention. Quinn spun in her seat and smiled at her, an unreadable one.

"What can I get you?" Santana purported, coming off as some sort of sultry drug dealer. Quinn barked a laugh at the affected voice Santana put on.

"Is that how you talk to all of the people that come in here? Now I know where you get your stupid generous tips," Quinn said, lifting the high ball glass that was once Santana's to her lips for a sip. Santana eyed her stolen drink, and decided to let her have it. She lounged against the bar, exuding a certain ownership of her sexuality that airbrushed magazine covers attempt to emulate.

"Hey, know your market. But seriously, what are you doing here. You never come to harass me at my job, you said it's a vapid trend sponge with cuisine on par with Carabba's," Santana stated. Quinn leaned back a few degrees with her drink sliding past her lips, and gazed up at the tin ceiling. The golden hues of the rich lighting in the dining rooms danced across the aluminum tiles. Santana watched them cast her features in a soft glow. She looked young, which was a strange thought. She _was_ young but Santana couldn't recall the last time Quinn actually looked it. The blonde in question sighed into an absent minded shrug, before returning to Santana's eyeline.

"Well, nobody should be alone on Valentine's Day."

At that, Santana was without a retort, so she slipped her cocktail out of Quinn's hand and took a sip. She felt the inklings of a genuine blush on the back of her neck but suppressed it immediately. Sincerity was not a trait they often used upon one another. Amongst all of the discarded clothes and skin on skin, it was easy to forget they were friends at the root of it all. They told people they were anyway. High school was always fond of labels, but nobody ever outlined what it meant to be the names they branded each other with.

"By nobody you mean you," Santana quipped. Although, the bite was hardly there.

Quinn merely smiled knowingly, and grabbed her drink back.

"I'll have the bolognese," she announced.

"I'll see if the kitchen is still open."

Santana finished up her hour flitting from the two tables to the bar, twirling a forkful of Quinn's meal into her mouth each time she passed. A single straggler remained at table 7 as the witching hour rolled in, sipping his cognac introspectively. Santana had long lost interest in scaring him out, and was helping Quinn sop the sauce off her plate with some bread. Becca caved as she watched Santana chase the remaining bits of tomato around the dish, trying to knock Quinn's bread piece away so she could have it all to herself. She told Santana to take her fuck buddy home, that she would handle 7.

Santana braved the gale force winds pushing her backwards towards the Hudson as they trudged down 10th street, across the island to Quinn's apartment off 1st Avenue. She made use of Quinn as a body shield as best as she could, and Quinn let her because she knew it wouldn't make a difference either way. The city had succumbed completely to the February chill. It was everywhere; icing over steps, pipes, seeping through the cracks in the walls, snatching at every mug of coffee or cup of soup, nipping at every inch of exposed skin and riding on the back of every burst of wind. Nowhere was safe, the suns warmth was merely a myth of lore, buried in the past under a snowdrift.

The stuffy heat of the apartment was welcomed with sighs of relief and bags dropping unceremoniously on the floor. Santana darted for the bathroom, a quirk that never failed her whenever she entered someone's home. Quinn busied herself around the studio while she waited. She brought a few mugs from her little table next to her bed, a queen sized bed that engulfed most of the main area, into the little kitchen alcove in the corner. It was small, but it was all she needed, and it hers. She pulled a lighter from one of the few drawers in the kitchen and began darting about quietly.

When Santana emerged, releasing an over dramatic sigh, she had to adjust her eyes to the darkened apartment. Small flames scattered their sleepy gleam around the room, and she almost didn't notice Quinn who leaned over one on the windowsill as she set it alight. Santana took a few hesitant steps into the main room and paused as Quinn took note of her presence.

"Um, Quinn? Something you want to share with the class?" Santana inquired. Her gaze on the approaching blonde was uneasy and her hands spun the ring on her right hand around her finger.

Quinn set the lighter down on the white sill and assumed the usual position before Santana, tugging at the collar of her peacoat and looking up at her through hooded eyes.

"I want a real Valentine's Day. I've never had one," she stated just above her breath. "I bought roses for my kitchen." She nodded in the direction of the small vase of red flowers, just as she said. Santana's stomach tied itself into a most unpleasant knot of pity and remorse, as a good deal of her past relationships weren't helped by Santana's involvement in her life. That quickly gave way to a panic at what Quinn was now insinuating.

Quinn had been undoing the buttons of the coat as Santana stood stiff. She broke from her piercing stare into Quinn's clouded eyes to watch the navy wool slide off her own shoulders onto the floor with a muffled thump. Quinn grazed her fingertips down the polyester print, a golden blur in the dim light, and placed them at the hemline, conveniently below her ass.

"Quinn," she protested, as her best friend's lips assailed her neck. She felt her body react to the sensual contact but she felt strange, like she had been duped into something she certainly didn't sign up for.

"Relax," Quinn mumbled into her skin. When her words and affections could not ease the tension in her friend's muscles, she looked her squarely in the eye. "It's not like that, okay? It's just… I can't have a Valentine's Day by myself."

Santana scoffed, "So, why wrangle me into this? You can have any Tom, Dick, or Harry from Pace to Syracuse." Quinn's explanation, while a bit scalding, at least allowed her to resume the status quo. Nothing made Santana more at ease than knowing where she stood. With anyone.

It was then that Quinn's neutral facade melted into a smirk, her eyes alight with something terribly sinful.

"Because," she drawled, her vowels falling all over the place. "Tonight, I want someone who can do things to me so that the sounds coming out of my mouth are so loud, that they shatter that vase over there into a million pieces."

If ever there was an image to accompany the definition of lust in the dictionary, Santana's face at that utterance would be it. Her entire body was revved up like a Mustang, and Quinn the hot asphalt road gleaming in the afternoon sun before her. Quinn wasn't even touching her, and if she did, there wouldn't be another coherent word out of her little pink maddening mouth.

"And I know the only person who can guarantee that…"

The dramatic pause as Quinn's features came into focus, a hairs breadth of open air left between them, almost drew a whine from Santana's constricted throat.

"...is you."

Santana chuckled and said with finality and blown out pupils, "However you want it, Susie Q."

At the faintest contact of Quinn's somehow still glossed lips grazing her own, Santana released the brakes. She seized the moment, charged with Quinn's fantastical expectations, and floored it. Everything rushed past her in her effort to get Quinn naked and on her back on the bed. Fabric and various objects collided but here was nothing but ringing in her ears as Quinn's body became a symphony of sensations underneath her.

She groaned as their bare skin melded together and raked her nails down the sides of Quinn. There was no further discussion, no explanation. Just the weight of Santana's upper body atop Quinn's, undulating up against her like waves crashing against the shore, as tan fingers did their work. It's not like they would have done anything different tonight had it been an ordinary day. Although, Santana usually had quite a few qualms when it came to playing along with Quinn's jerry-rigged attempts at happiness. She didn't have time for her deluded bullshit, no matter how guilty she felt for their sham of a friendship in the past.

But this was the only way to have sex with Quinn at the moment, and sex was one thing, but _great_ sex was hard to come by. How could she resist Quinn, so heated and willing, legs that parted themselves pretty much. If Quinn wanted to dress up their fornication with roses and a pretty pink bow for one night, Santana might as well just suck it up and give in this once.

She did have to admit, the candles were a nice touch.


	3. Unbelievers

_Note: My depth of legal knowledge consists of episodes of CSI and Law and Order: SVU so I apologize for anything stupid I wrote as far as the legal jargon. _

**_..._**

**March 2015**

**...**

Nothing is more zealously received than the turning of the earth upon its axis as the northeast swings into spring. The first inklings of March, be it puddles trickling down along the gutter in the morning, in place of the frozen opaque masses they usually become overnight, or a layer of sweat forming under wool hats after power walking to the subway station. These symptoms of a warm future close at hand tempt the cities residents with visions of vermillion and lapis spilling from flowerbeds and the crisp mild bite of ramps woven between eggs at Sunday brunch, the desire to even _go out _for Sunday brunch, or go out at all.

However, such watercolor dreams never come to fruition. Instead, New York welcomes the equinox with a meteorological cocktail of sticky, varying humidity, drizzle, and fog as far as the eye can see. Any wisp of warmth is snuffed out by the 15 mph winds that barrel down the streets, carrying the last of winter's chill with them, insistent that you don't forget. It's pretty bleak.

Quinn found herself in the middle of this with her hair flat and frizzed, and her calves coated in a layer of sweat underneath her cumbersome rain boots, beneath a paper white sky. She trudged through the indecisive mist thing happening that morning amidst the herds of suits up 6th Avenue, slipping a little on the marble sidewalks built out on each block.

Despite the tepid meteorological turnout, it was one of those day's pregnant with something. A sense of approaching a vast beginning, almost, like her steps sprung from the pavement and at any second life! glorious, elusive life is going to unfold before her in a vibrant scene like a pop up book from her childhood. Her little gold cross bounced on her collarbone and everything felt fresh and alive, be it the budding trees on 12th street or the stations whipping by in the grungy windows of the outdated F train. Quinn couldn't explain its reasoning, other than it being a case of waking up on the right side of the bed. Why fight it; it was certainly a perfect day for this outlook.

Today was different, today was alive, and she was alive amidst the sober faced business drones. Passing grandiose lobby after lobby at the feet of midtown's towering monoliths and geometric space towers alike, she arrived at her destination. She hurried between two modern onyx fountains and into a glass enclosure where piano music echoed softly from a baby grand in the far corner.

A few breaths to collect herself and she swiped her card and shot up some 40 floors in a mirrored and carpeted elevator. First day jitters hit her, and she flattened her palm down her pencil skirt frantically before the doors opened onto the floor. She nodded at no one, and proceeded through the frosted glass doors beside the plaque "Leeman & Associates" to start her first day in the shark tank. Quinn Fabray: Law Intern.

She couldn't deny the pride straightening her back and holding her head high as the clock struck 9. Look who ended up actually amounting to something in this stately office, all wood paneling and sweeping marble reception desk. Not too shabby.

Only after she kicked off her boots and fell back onto her bed did she release a breath she had been holding all day. The flurry of the day's introductions and procedure run throughs and words and words and more words dissipated into a proud glow. Her body relaxed into the quiet as the sun sank, splaying amber hues across her window. Well, it relaxed for a minute before her buzzer jarringly announced a visitor.

She slunk over to the intercom and only had to press the button to hear Santana's voice fill her apartment amidst the crackle.

"Quinn open up! I brought snacks!" she yelled. Quinn buzzed her up and listened through the paper thin walls as her visitor's boots clunked up the steps. Quinn recalled the volume at which their after hours activities usually rose to and blushed profusely. No one has complained, but still, she could hear Santana's boots nearing her door clear as a bell, so she only imagined the acoustics went both ways. Not the best way to bond with the neighbors.

Bursting through the door, Santana huffed and puffed while she divested herself of her coat. She brandished two white coffee cups with a frowning face stamped on the side of each.

"Grumpy's for the lawyer, a little love from down home Brooklyn," Santana said. She bounced onto Quinn's bed beside her, and held out the cup as Quinn pulled herself into a sitting position.

She took a slow sip of the steaming beverage, and hummed "Mmm, thanks S. God, I needed it." A paper bag landed in her lap, her curiosity imploring at how Santana pulled all this stuff out of nowhere.

"I got you that olive oil bread you like from that place too," Santana explained. She opened it for her and took a hunk off, popping it into her mouth and grimacing instantly. "Yeah, still weird."

Quinn laughed a deep, energy depleted laugh and took a piece off for herself, reveling in the sweet and savory sensation, that she washed down with a sip of her latte. The flavor combination surprised her when she tried the for the first time, and it's tastiness continues to shock her every time.

"You're the best, San," Quinn told her in between sips that turned into gulps. Santana shrugged and licked some residual foam off her lips. It was certainly strange, this ease they had fallen into. This whole bringing her coffee on her first day of her internship thing, for example. Santana never brought anyone anything, except maybe Brittany because she would forget to eat if Santana didn't put food in front of her.

She tried to shove the urge to catalog every gesture Santana made into the back of her mind. It wasn't easy. Blame it on Quinn's predisposed legal nature, but Quinn couldn't help but assign motive or meaning to everything anyone ever did for her. Handshakes were met with a once over, and texts out of the blue scrutinized for traces of favors between the pixelated words. It was exhausting more than it was fruitful.

And what did it matter? Brittany was different than this. What those two had between them was different from this. Whatever this was.

"So tell me Q!" Santana exclaimed, "How did it go? Did you get put on a serial killer case?" Santana's legal naivety never failed to amuse her, and she almost affirmed her assumption just for kicks. If only to see her face light up at the scandal of it all.

They sat like school girls on Quinn's bed as the evening carried on outside the four white walls, while she relayed the days events in her new environment. Santana was easily wowed by all the legal jargon and apparently that went a long way because after the lattes were drained and the loaf picked to crumbs, Santana had that glint in her eye. Quinn wouldn't have pinned her as a girl who could be wooed by people in positions of power. Santana was often herself the one with the upper hand.

Nevertheless, as the sun dropped, so did Santana's eyes, going from wide-eyed fascination to hooded lust. It was mesmerizing to watch, and perhaps a bit of a power trip. She couldn't stop herself from throwing random words into sentences, sure by now that Santana was no longer absorbing a single syllable beyond their phonetics. She was leaning forward so far that her face eclipsed Quinn's entire line of vision. Quinn's legs erupted in goosebumps at her proximity, as she had long since discarded her tights and her blazer.

"Say that again," Santana demanded.

"Deposition."

Santana's lips parted, and she hooked her finger in Quinn's collar to pull her forward.

"Something else."

"Administrative dissolution."

She quirked her brow and pulled them both backwards, settling herself upright against the headboard.

"Come here, your honor."

She yanked Quinn into her lap by her hips, and Quinn made a squeak at her sudden force. Santana's one hand toyed with the buttons on her blouse and popped them open one by one.

"Santana I'm law intern, not a judge."

"Don't ruin it, Q," Santana mumbled against the smooth skin just below Quinn's collarbone, that she now had fully exposed before her. She was pressing a slow succession of kisses, forging a path across the bridge of her bra and down as far as her bowed neck allowed her. Quinn threaded her hands in the dark tresses below her. Her eyes were in danger of drifting shut as she tugged on Santana's halted scalp. Her lips had found a spot it liked on her ribcage, and they were currently bookmarking it with a lip shaped blotch for later.

"Okay, then," Quinn acquiesced, rolling her eyes and ordering, "Lay back." She pushed Santana's shoulders until she was as vertical as she could be, propped up against against the pillows and all. Quinn shuffled her body to better suit her position, and dipped her head to bring them eye to eye. Her open blouse brushed against Santana's arms, starchy white against her caramel skin.

Santana gave her that challenging look. The one with the narrowed eyes and smirk, lips parted ever so slightly. The one that fondly boasts of knowing Quinn inside and out. The one that always dared Quinn to prove her wrong. Quinn licked her lips, almost propitiously.

"It's time for your cross examination," she murmured.

Santana's eyes darkened, lapping up the seduction dripping from Quinn's words. She let her shirt be nudged up and pulled from her skin and over her head. She let Quinn keep herself at an agonizing distance, mere centimeters from her mouth, eyes trained on the parting of Santana's lips.

Quinn's fingers drew nonsensical measurements across her stomach, not breaking her gaze.

"The defense will now approach the accused," Quinn spoke, slowly, drawing out each word. She rose a few degrees, putting space between them. "Santana Lopez."

Santana wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement, but either way, she was a bit preoccupied by ministrations of Quinn's hands and their indiscernible paths. It wasn't until they paused, an index finger in mid-swirl, that she realized Quinn was anticipating a response.

"Yes?" she uttered. Santana's sandpaper voice betrayed her. _God_, Quinn was such a tease, was what she really meant. The hands resumed their purpose, slow and dragging skin across skin.

"Would you consider yourself completely in control of your body at all times, Ms. Lopez?" Quinn asked. Her voice was unwavering, as if she stood before the stand in her pencil skirt and her simple black pumps. Quinn's hands found a place that pleased them and they settled momentarily along the curves of Santana's ribs.

"Yes…" Santana hissed, for as she let the word slip out, Quinn dragged her nails down her sides. She palmed the dip of Santana's waist as she smiled wickedly at her friend's body's objection to her answer. Santana swallowed thickly.

"Oh? So you deny that you crave human contact?"

Quinn dug the heels of her palms into Santana's skin ever so slightly as they traversed her stomach, and ghosted over the cups of Santana's black bra. Like a reflex, Santana pressed her shoulders into the pillows to arch into her outstretched hands. But Quinn maintained her distance and her smile shifted into a smirk, one of triumph, as felt the heat of Santana's blood rushing beneath her skin and her hips twitching beneath where she sat astride them.

Santana narrowed her eyes at Quinn, who sat smug atop her, pupils dilated spectacularly, drunk on her power. A stream of air exiting Santana's nose disturbed the askew strands of brown hair around her face, the only movement amidst the complete rigidity of Santana's entire being. Although she was glaring, it couldn't be denied that a faint glimmer somewhere in Santana's iris betrayed her enjoyment of this game Quinn was fond of.

"I do deny it," Santana spoke; her words solid, stacking like carefully laid stones. Quinn considered this response with a frown. Her fingers lowered themselves one by one to make contact with the padded black fabric encasing the skyward reaching mounds. Despite herself, Santana's hips twitched again_._ Quinn raised her brow in disbelief.

Quinn made no effort to keep from rolling her hips as she lowered her torso to run parallel to Santana, who squared her jaw in a miserable attempt at confirming her response.

"I see," Quinn mumbled, the paper thin distance allowing every other word to brush her lips across Santana's. "You deny that you want me to touch you?"

She reached her thumbs above the bra fabric and ran them across the skin that she found there, smiling as she felt Santana breathe shakily against her mouth.

"I do," she maintained. Although her eyes were wider now, her resolve melting by the second.

"You deny that you want me to kiss you?"

This she whispered, dragging each word across Santana's lips in what could only be described as pure agony on Santana's part. Her hands fisted the fitted sheet as she tried to suppress the urge to slam herself into Quinn, shut her up. But she would not forfeit.

Santana licked her lips, her tongue stealing a gasp from Quinn this time, as it darted out from her slowly slacking jaw.

With a smile of her own, Santana breathed, "I deny it."

"Don't lie under oath, Ms. Lopez," Quinn scolded. Santana felt the kiss of death as hips began to rock slowly down upon her own_._ "You uphold to the court that you, Santana Lopez, don't want me?"

"Nope," Santana snapped. She tried a nonchalant grin, but it probably morphed into a grimace as the friction picked up it's pace. Quinn pushed firmly, a little too firmly, against Santana's chest and sat up. She took the edge of her shirt between the pads of her fingers and began to peel it off of herself. As she shed her prim clothes and proper posture, Santana was transfixed, as if she was four years old and watching the unwrapping of an ice cream bar in August.

"You don't… need me?"

Quinn's mouth hung loose on it's hinges, still upturned into a grin, and the cardio below her waist was getting the better of her lungs. If Santana was any other girl, she knew she would be on her knees with demure Quinn all popped open and hiked up and words loaded with subtext like a hot and bothered librarian.

"Fuck no," Santana scoffed, but her nails gripped Quinn's thighs and her lip, a bruised prisoner of her teeth, made a different case. Quinn halted her movements, Santana held her breath. The former propped herself up on the bed with one arm, and bent her body at a strange angle. Santana looked down to notice Quinn's hand dancing dangerously close to the top of her jeans.

Before Santana could object, Quinn dexterously undid the button and slid her entire hand beneath the taut denim. Her eyes found Santana's as she made contact with what she sought. Santana's eyes nearly rolled into the back of her head, where Quinn gasped in faux-surprise. Her expression was one of indisputable triumph.

"_Guilty_."

**...**

As the story goes, Quinn Fabray, the self proclaimed queen of chastity got pregnant. Not with her boyfriend, no that would be too predictable, but with his _best friend_ who was neither Christian nor king of anything. The blonde high-ponytail cheer captain had an emotional breakdown, dipped her head in Pepto Bismol, pierced a few things, got a tramp stamp and became a chain smoking outcast. But then, she set a piano on fire in the middle of the school. With a cigarette. It was revealed that her all-American beauty symmetry was organic as Santana's boobs, and that before McKinley, she was fat, pimply, with four eyes and a giant schnoz. Turns out, a mere year before her freshman year as the closest thing McKinley had to royalty, she was at the bottom of the food chain, her existence addressed only in slurs. Not to be outdone by the time she got hit by a car, survived by some act of the God she'd all but given up on, and recovered beautifully from her paralysis. She premiered her ability to walk at, wait for it… prom. By standing up on stage, no warning. That one was maybe a little more orchestrated than the rest, but still within the theme here. For her final act, the teen mom, rebel near-dropout, cripple got into Yale. Fucking Yale, like the Ivy League Yale. And how could she not? You can't write this shit.

Santana was laying amidst yet another one of Quinn's plot twists inside a plot twist surprises. Naked, post sex, with an equally bare Quinn beneath a loosely lain sheet catching her breath. Of all the girls she rained terror upon in high school, she never would have pegged Quinn to be a notch in her bedpost. To be honest, Berry was most likely to dabble first by Santana's observations.

But she should have seen it coming. It was Quinn's way after all, predictably unpredictable. It certainly kept Santana on her toes when she was around.

Moments like this, with Quinn's nuclear family photos on the wall, her peacoat strewn across a chair, and the Manhattan hum seeping through the cracks of the shoddy pre-war architecture, shed light on the context of this extracurricular they'd picked up. It felt a little bit out-of-body. Like it wasn't happening, not to her at least.

But then she would look over at her, _Quinn_ Quinn, who was in constant metamorphosis, and it no longer seemed so out of left field for her to attach her lips between Santana's legs. And let her return the favor. It was another episode, another chapter, another layer of the chrysalis peeling away. The other versions of her best friend were all so easily segmented in hindsight. However, for this Quinn, the one she saw right next to her in this exact moment, Santana tried to piece together the picture of what Quinn she'll be deemed in a few years time.

"You're staring."

Santana shook her head and inhaled deeply through her nose.

"Yeah, sorry I was thinking about shit."

Quinn's face softened in jest, and her eyes clouded with pride.

"Whatever," she said, "Enjoy the view." Santana scoffed and rolled over, the defenses of a caught 4th grade schoolboy. Quinn's body rumbled against her back as she laughed. Santana tensed a little, the realization that they were touching rang somewhere in the distance.

Now facing Quinn's night stand, she took in the contents of Quinn's things carefully laid upon it. Besides her thrift store lamp, there wasn't much. Her phone and it's white power cord, the tail end of which disappeared between the wall and the stand. A stack of rings. A paperback book that was a little worse for wear. Atop the book coiled Quinn's tiny golden cross. It twinkled in what it could reach of the dim kitchen light. Santana found herself fixating on it, as if it locked away all of Quinn's secrets in it's gold dipped iron grip.

Behind her, Quinn hummed sweetly, her languor evident in her voice. If there was ever a safe time to pry, post-sex would be it. Quinn was nearly drugged by her own hormones.

"Hey Q," she called tentatively.

"Mmmmm?"

"Do you still go to church?"

"Haven't in a while, now that you mention it."

"Why's that?"

"I guess it slipped my mind."

"So are you like, still super Christian?"

Quinn hummed her little laugh, eyes drooping shut.

"There's not a punch card for sermons, San. And I'm not exactly saying grace at every meal either."

Santana's measured breathing occupied her lungs as she stalled.

"But you still wear your cross all the time."

It was a statement rather than a question. Quinn didn't respond right away, and Santana could hear her apprehension building in the silence. Her eyes remained trained curiously on the necklace.

Quinn finally answered, "What are you really asking, San?"

Santana knew she had reached the limit of her brief open forum. She turned onto her back once again, and looked up at Quinn, who had sobered up from her sex induced stupor.

She licked her lips before she began, "I don't know, it's just a little strange how you were always so religious and shit in high school, you know?"

Quinn shrugged, hardly bothered, and her eyes searched Santana for where this was going.

"Well, I'm just curious how all of this," Santana went on, gesturing to the mess they'd made of the bed, alluding to the perpetuity of it. "How it fits into all of that."

Quinn wasn't sure how to handle Santana dancing around topics. She was never sensitive to anything, and it freaked Quinn out a little. Santana wasn't even making eye contact anymore. Perhaps it was the nature of the conversation that rubbed Santana the wrong way. She couldn't be casual about these conversations, not when Santana's own outing was so callous, snatched from her by people who hardly knew her. It still pained Quinn to recall the look on her face that day as everyone stared, everyone _knew_.

She gazed up at the ceiling, and pressed her lips together contemplatively. Santana took this time to grow nervous that she'd put her foot in her mouth yet again.

Finally, the blonde let the words flow smoothly from her tongue, "If a man lies with a man as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination."

It certainly wasn't what Santana was expecting. She threw a look of faint confusion up at Quinn until her bedmate slowly turned to meet her stare. Quinn offered no further explanation and her face was stony, void of anything Santana could draw from.

"That's from the bible?" Santana confirmed. Quinn looked at her just the same and nodded. She was completely still, not rigid, but still, while Santana fidgeted like mad.

"Leviticus 20:13," Quinn added. Santana processed this as she took her turn in staring at the ceiling.

"If man lies with man it's an abomination. Like a sin," Santana reasoned, although Quinn nodded slowly, as if it were a question. Santana's fingers made crop circles in the bunching of the sheet as her eyes read invisible words across the white plaster above them. That was it? Those words were what condemned her at the hand of half the population, and maybe Quinn too if she chose to pursue this new pastime of hers.

They may be just friends, but this was what separated them, those words circling Quinn in a river of clapping rapids and a relentless current.

"So how do you explain to yourself what we've been doing, if you're still all buddy buddy with Jesus?" Santana inquired, gesturing again to their unspoken activities.

Santana barely caught the slight furrow in Quinn's brow, her eyes flitting over Santana's naked form to glance at her golden cross. Something seemed to be rolling around in her head, and Santana paused her circling forefinger to watch it unfurl.

It didn't take long, and soon, Quinn was tracing her own finger up and down the gap between Santana's ribcage.

"Well," Quinn said, hushed as if they were being overheard. Santana lay waiting as Quinn's eyes followed her fingers and palm as they made their way across her flesh, to run her thumb along the soft patch of skin beneath her breast. Goosebumps erupted in their wake.

"Well?" Santana egged her on. Quinn licked her lips, her thoughts coming together on her smile like threads weaving into silk.

"Weeellll," she repeated, her tone now playful as she loomed over Santana. Quinn's torso was pressed so flush, she could feel the contracting of Quinn's lungs beneath her alabaster skin. Their hips aligned beneath the sheet and the contact hitched Santana's breath rather audibly.

"I just remind myself…" Quinn continued. Santana quirked her eyebrow at Quinn's promise of an explanation still hanging in the now diminishing air between them. In turn, Quinn bared her teeth in a hungry grin.

"We are not men."


	4. Step

_Notes: to the reviewer that picked out the Game of Thrones reference, :D I didn't think anyone would get it!_

**...**

**April 2015**

The bar they selected was no five star institution by any standard, that was for sure. The bodies of after work twenty-somethings were packed in like sheep in a barn stall. The air stuffy from overuse and body heat with nowhere to go. Music emanated from somewhere like a throbbing pulse, only the thump of the bass to be heard over the din. The space was probably half submerged underground, and the lacquered bar took up half the room.

Quinn and Santana had secured a spot against said bar, thank god. They nursed drinks they didn't purchase and wore coy smiles they wouldn't share. Santana sucked down her whiskey with her head bent towards Quinn, who was in mid joke, a girl in an unfortunate animal print at 5 o'clock her victim.

Maybe they were drunk again. Maybe that's how Santana's hand found it's way onto her waist. And maybe it's why Quinn was so enthralled with the velvet of Santana's collar bone beneath her fingertip. She idally grazed it with her elbow stationed between two puddles of sloshed drink casualties on the bar. The mass of people around them merely a sea of bodies, breaking against the shores of the bar in splashes of clinking glass and snapping fingers.

Here, the body language spelled out the sectioning of the crowd. Two necks bent down exchanging wry smiles, rings of square shoulders, and then there was them, grappling with gravity and hands everywhere and nowhere. If they had been somewhere in Chelsea and not downtown, there would be no mistaking their coupling.

But here, amidst the button down bro's and girls caked in foundation and desperation, they just looked like two very close college friends who liked to do things together. Everything together.

That was their game, and they excelled at it.

Dizzy with vodka numbing her tongue, Quinn was very confident of that fact. She clung to her drink, it's slick layer of condensation making that difficult, and opened her mouth to release a hearty laugh at something Santana said, although she couldn't recall what was so funny about it. They had won themselves 3 drinks each so far, and one round of celebratory shots with the bartender. She had been especially impressed with their tactics.

Quinn giggled into her drink as Santana's words tickled her ear. She found herself leaning into it, her chest heavy under the weight of her shallow breathing. Her hand tightened even further around the cheap tumbler when Santana carelessly grazed her bottom lip across her ear lobe. It was just carelessly, though.

"You're looking a little dry there, want a refill?"

Her eyes flew open at the voice presumably addressing her. Why the hell were they closed?

A textbook investment boy stood before her; chestnut hair swept to the side, crisp french blue shirt, single pleats with a tailor-made break, and a lopsided smile. One tall drink of water, as her mother would say.

Santana nudged her after what was probably an uncomfortable silence at her hand.

"Oh, um, yes, now that you mention it. Good eye," she recovered. From behind cardboard cutout boy came his clone, only dipped into a blonde color palette. He nodded at Santana and began salivating like a terrier. It would be an easy one for her best friend, Quinn could tell already.

She accepted the fresh glass of her most likely well vodka and cranberry with a shy smile. He was a junior something or other at J.P. Morgan, she found out. They bonded over their midwestern roots. He actually had witty jokes to accompany her trained laughter. Quinn sank into their rapport with as much contention as submerging her sunsoaked body into a backyard pool. He apologetically took an email for a beat that popped up on his Blackberry, corporate grade, and Quinn glanced to her left.

Santana was already fixated on Quinn and the progress of her new plaything. The blonde smirked in her direction, assuredly, that he was none the wiser. However, Santana's concern didn't wane. It was subdued dramatically by her whiskey haze, but it remained concerned nonetheless. Maybe it wasn't concern. It was something she'd seen before, though. If only she could see straight enough to put her finger on it…

"Sorry about that… Quinn right?"

Jack (Jake?) drew her back in with his woolen voice. She laughed, letting her eyes fall to her drink swirling in her hand and affirmed his guess. They carried on as before, him leaning against the bar like he was at a senior mixer. By her guess, that stage of his life was not that far gone. His shoulders were not yet burdened. His shoes still held their shine. Her hand resting on his forearm lightly drew him in; the puppeteer deftly commanding her strings, and she was sure her intoxication was showing a little in her flushed cheeks. He liked college football more than professional, and used to love that ice cream parlor in Cincinnati too, but he was more of a rocky road kind of guy. It was a lot like the one near his apartment in Gramercy. They don't allow dogs, but the next one he gets he'll make sure is pet friendly.

Shit, wait, his apartment?

"It's got a great view if later you wanted to come see it," John (no, Jim?) trailed off. He scratched the back of his head and grimaced at Quinn's apparently obvious hesitation. "I'm sorry if that came off sleazy, shit."

Quinn shook her head, to both deny his statement and to get herself together. He was sweet, sort of.

"No, it wasn't the worst I've heard," she told him, patting his starched sleeve as he took a soothing gulp of his amber drink. He reddened a little and laughed despite himself.

"Okay, good," he said, still shaky from his fumble. He gravitated towards Quinn and she could see his green eyes drink her up in the dim lighting. "Because you're really nice, and pretty, and I don't want to make you feel…"

"She said no, buddy."

Quinn didn't have to turn around to hear where the voice thick with warning came from. She felt the radiating territorial heat against her back; Santana's presence ever unmistakable.

Justin (wait, no..) looked up, but didn't put any distance between them.

"I know, I wasn't…" he tried, but Santana took another step into their bubble.

"Then why don't you back off?" she snapped. Her hand found its way to Quinn's shoulder. The touch shook her from her spectatorship and she tried to turn towards Santana.

"It's fine, he wasn't doing anything, San," she soothed. Santana had finished her drink, and was clenching the fist where it once was.

"Oh, pleeeease, everyone in this bar knows what he was doing, Q," Santana slurred. The whiskey had only stoked this fire, it seems. Quinn stood squarely in front of her friend, she wasn't going to have a scene.

"Santana, relax, I'm fine," Quinn hissed.

"You're drunk, why don't you go sit down," Josh (it'll do) told her. His Adonis friend came up behind her and put a calming hand on Santana's arm, but it only escalated the already volatile situation.

"Get the fuck off me!" Santana shrieked. She shook him off with all the force needed to take down a tiger, and turned on him. "You don't know who you're fucking with, asshole. I'll rip your goldilocks out of your head, down to the root!" If Quinn hadn't pulled Santana into her and deadlocked her arms, she might have gotten a chunk. Quinn combed her memories for how she had always restrained a "Lima Heights" Santana back in high school, but her liquor addled brain could barely recall Santana's drink count.

"Santana calm down, we're leaving," Quinn spat in her ear, through clenched teeth. She dragged her, shoving her wallet into her fists, away from the quivering wingman with his hands held high like he was in a stick up. He wasn't far off, actually. She shot an apologetic look at Jason (at this point who cares). He shook his head and turned from the scene without a second thought.

Santana hadn't calmed down in the slightest by the time Quinn had hauled her, kicking and screaming, out onto the pavement, glistening under the city lights after a day of rain. She was still ranting and raving, hands gesticulating wildly about.

"Santana please!" Quinn cried. Her outburst seemed to halt whatever had been spewing from Santana's mouth. She stood, chest heaving and staring at Quinn like she was the one deranged.

"I know he looked like a direct descendent of Adam, but come on, he had Wall Street scumbag all over him," Santana reasoned. She'd lowered her volume at least. Quinn was still fuming.

"What the hell is wrong with you, we could have gotten kicked out, or… or arrested!" Quinn exclaimed. Santana stumbled backwards at the placement of blame, clearly taken aback.

"Are you seriously pissed at me? I did you a fucking favor, Fabray!" she proclaimed. She held her hand to her collar bone in self-recognition.

"Oh yeah? What favor was that? Saving me from the big, bad, financially stable halfway-decent guy?" Quinn replied, more vexed than angry, really. It was all so dramatic and quite frankly, she was tired and he was easy and why couldn't anything ever be easy?

Santana scoffed, nearly lost her grip on her clutch as she waved it about, and snarled back, "What exactly was your plan, Quinn? You were going to go back to his place, pray he wasn't some Patrick Bateman in the making, let him fuck you once or twice and then what? Did you actually think he was going to offer you breakfast tomorrow morning, besides his own limp 5 inch sausage?"

Quinn's hair fell into her face as her head shook side to side. There was no way to reason when she was this far gone, drunk on entitled rage backed by the distilled grains sloshing in her stomach or whatever whiskey was derived from.

Santana deflated, and reached for Quinn's hand to pull them towards a cab.

"Whatever, lets just go."

"No," Quinn declined. She pulled her hand close, as if it might follow on it's own against her will. Santana retracted her own apprehensively. "You're drunk, San, go home."

Santana crossed her arms and leaned into her incredulity.

"Alone," Quinn emphasized. Her tongue enunciated bitingly and she stood on the zippy side street a pillar of immovable anger.

Santana clicked her tongue in her cheek and growled, "Whatever." She backed away, swaying a little as she extended her arm to hail a cab. Her glare morphed into an eyeroll and by the time she turned around a cab had squealed to a halt before her.

Quinn watched her clamor into the belly of the yellow beast and as the taxi sped off towards Brooklyn, she sent a text to Rachel.

Sent drunk Santana home in a cab. Text me when she's gets there?

She had no more than hoisted herself up into a flagged cab of her own when her phone lit up.

_Will do. I'm making toast as I text._

**...**

Santana groaned as her consciousness began to illuminate behind her eyelids and filter through the sweet, dark oblivion of her sleep. She was horizontal, still constricted by the stupid dress she'd worn, and her hair was sticking to the side of her mouth. She was a vision, truley. In a great stretch and scrunching of her face, she finally forced her eyes to open, and brought her world into focus.

She nearly leaped out of her skin at the sight of Rachel Berry, poised and beaming in that pitiful way where she was so there for you. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, which was still made as Santana sprawled out spread eagle atop it.

"Jesus christ, Berry. What the fuck," she mumbled. Her voice felt and sounded like she swallowed gravel.

"You came home drunk and I fed you and put you to bed," she announced. Her bangs shook as she nodded to herself, for what reason Santana couldn't fathom.

"Do you want a medal?" she deadpanned. Rachel smiled.

"No thank you, I've got plenty of those," she said sweetly. She held out a full mug, more like a preemptive caffeinated peace offering. "I figured you might need a pick me up."

Santana sat up slowly to receive it, although her body creaked in protest to the movement, or maybe that was the bed. She gripped the handle and slurped the steaming liquid beneath the dollop of foam that floated happily on top.

"Mm, is this from that fancy new robot you got for Christmas? Hanukkah, or whatever," Santana asked.

Rachel nodded, "The Nespresso machine, yes! It's great isn't it? You can use it whenever you want, or just ask me and I'll make you something." She seemed to fidget in her seat in excitement at this much dialogue being exchanged between the two of them. Santana might have been disturbed by it as well, had she had any wits about her at all.

"Look at you, you're like one of those helpful little house elves that make shoes or presents. You even manage to look the part," she gibed. Rachel hummed in faux agreement and stood up from her perch. She made to walk back into the living area but paused, and tried to fight the urge to pry, ultimately succumbing to it.

"So what did you do?" she piped up. Santana, who was engrossed in the consumption of her coffee blinked at her.

"Um, what?" Santana rasped. Rachel crossed her arms as her disapproval took over.

"I mean, what did you do to Quinn to make her so mad at you?" Rachel prodded.  
Santana chortled, standing up to peel off her day old clothes in favor of something more forgiving on her senses.

"That is none of your business, and anyway, why do you always assume it's me, Berry?" she snapped. Rachel bristled a little and looked away bashfully as Santana's shimmied out of her dress.

Recovering, she replied, "Well you came in last night in a tizzy about how much of a bitch she was and how much you hate her which means that you did something." Santana had popped her head through a t-shirt that was a few inches shorter than it probably should have been. A wince of regret flashed across her features. She hated how her incessantly nosey roommate was always right about everything. Only a few minutes after waking up and she already had to relive her drunken mishaps. She said as much as she glared at Rachel on her plod into the kitchen. "Don't walk away from me!" she heard her grumble.

A familiar spicy aroma emanated from where Kurt stood at the stove and Santana scowled. He continued to break up his sizzling breakfast with his spatula, unaware of her standing behind him.

"Is that my chorizo, Hummel?" she growled. He jumped about 2 feet backwards from his eggs. She was about to rip him a new one when Berry came scurrying across the tile.

"Don't avoid the subject Santana," she chastised her. Santana whipped around to give her the best 'fuck off' glower she could muster as Kurt slunk off with his plate of eggs into his room. She felt those invasive eyes narrow at her in return as she navigated her way around the couch to plop down and turn on the television.

Her head was pounding and the back of her skull felt like a nail was hammered into it and Rachel suddenly blocked her view of whatever reality show rerun was squabbling on MTV.

"What are you doing, Santana?" she scolded with her hands on her hips. Santana dropped her head backwards onto the back of the couch and groaned. She heard the soft stomps of Rachel approaching her and felt the remote ripped from her limp grasp. "Go fix it!" she cried.

"For fuck's sake, can I regain consciousness first?" Santana griped. She tried to massage her temples, hoping it would erase Berry from her line of sight when she sat upright again. To no avail. She stood before her, fuming for no real reason other than her need to shove her giant beak into everyone's business. Not even everyone. Just Santana.

Rachel made it quite clear she wasn't budging. And frankly, her fuming mug was a little terrifying. She was prematurely gifted at this whole Jewish guilt thing.

"Fine," Santana relented, "I'll fix it. Just… stop looking at me like that, it'll make it hard to get to sleep tonight." Rachel broke character at the effectiveness of her own tactics for a beat, and then she resumed her stance. Santana had begun her trudge back into the solitude of her room.

"Wait," Rachel called, "You aren't going to tell me what happened?"

"No fucking way. So you can, what, add it to your Quinn and Santana journal you've been keeping score in since 10th grade?" Santana jeered. Rachel was so flustered her words only came out in clipped "never's" and "I don't's" amidst nonsensical sounds. Santana didn't give her a chance to deny it before she shut the door on their conversation. She could still hear the muttering through the wood as Rachel carried on outside. It made Santana wonder if maybe that wasn't such a crazy accusation.

Quinn enjoyed the guilty pleasures of cupcakes, as most uppity blonde white girls do, and that's where Santana found herself within the hour, waiting outside Magnolia at 30 Rock for her best friend. For a Sunday, it was pretty desolate, and Santana was nothing if not grateful for that. She didn't want a huge audience for this confrontation. It's not like she was opposed to apologizing, she had done enough of that in her lifetime, for sure.

This time she had crossed a line, a big, fat, white line painted on the ground and she just waltzed right over it. She was so stupid. Stupid booze and stupid boys and stupid Quinn for getting her all mixed up in the same bullshit that drowned her in high school.

Now she had to sit here, and convince Quinn, and herself, that she was just drunk and she didn't mean to get territorial and this is nothing to her. Quinn is nothing to her, except a friend. And old friend who she has sex with occasionally. Period. Full stop.

God this sucks. Her stupid fucking temper.

A mop of blonde emerged from the subway entrance to her right and Santana nodded her over. Quinn approached her with a wry smile and took her hands out of her pea coat pockets to receive the pastel peace offering.

"What's this? Trying to bribe me into forgiving you?" Quinn asked playfully. She popped open the box and surveyed her gift.

"Maybe," Santana replied, a little too earnestly. She shook it off, and plucked a speckled chocolate egg from atop one of the confections. "Anyways, nobody should spend Easter Sunday alone, especially a good christian like you, Q."

Quinn raised one eyebrow in disbelief but didn't comment. She picked up a cupcake and took a bite, then scrunched her nose almost instantly.

"You know you just paid way too much for subpar cupcakes, right?" Quinn taunted. Santana threw her hands in the air.

"Yeah, well I'm not the cupcake aficionado like you are, Quinn. I just googled cupcakes and NYC and this was what came up first," she snarled, with her arms crossed. "If they're that horrible, I'll eat them all." She made to snatch the box back, but Quinn kept them out of her reach, eyes sparkling with mirth at Santana's vexation.

"I'll eat them, I'm just giving you a hard time," she assured her. She took another bite and began to walk with Santana down the street through Rockefeller Center. The wind whipped down 49th street and burned their faces with faint frostbite, but all in all it was a tepid spring day.

Quinn led them silently past the gilded buildings of the tourist trap. She passed the box laterally to Santana who helped herself to a mint green one with chocolate cake. Quinn seemed much less off put than she had been the night before, almost like she'd forgotten why the cupcake bribery was necessary. She was preoccupied with the art deco deities made of metals and who knows what else, set into the cement above the entryways of all the buildings. If she wasn't completely on edge waiting for Quinn to open the floor for a very uncomfortable conversation, she might have found them interesting too.

Still, all the way to 5th Avenue they'd made it, and no flicker of vindictive Quinn. It was actually more terrifying, this suspense. Quinn most certainly knew that, with her slow, even steps. She wanted Santana to simmer in her own imagination for a little.

"I'm not mad anymore, so you can stop looking at me like I'm going to throw these cupcakes in your face," Quinn spoke, after what seemed like hours.

"Oh," Santana breathed. "okay..."

Quinn looked up at the buildings poking at the clear sky, "We've known each other for a long time, San. I get it. It's a natural instinct when we're here in this new place."

Santana swallowed a lump, "You do?" she questioned, not expecting this. Quinn turned to her and smiled affectionately. Santana reddened.

"Well yeah, you care about me, and I care about you," she continued. Santana tried to regulate her breathing. "It's only natural that when a guy comes up to me like that, that you react the way you did." Santana groped in the blind recesses of her mind for words but her mouth hung open slightly, just gulping in air as they crossed the Avenue that was blocked off, strangely enough. Quinn strolled out into the street, looking left and only left as street savvy locals only do. Santana might have made a dry comment on Quinn's newfound confidence, how she wove in between the pedestrians with ease. If she was tasked with spotting her on the street, she would never have pinned the blonde head cooly bobbing in and out of sight. Slowing to a more leisurely speed, Quinn sat them both down on some steps and placed the box between them.

"Look, I appreciate it, I do," Quinn went on. Santana felt herself tense up. This was it, it was taking this turn now, down the road of gentle rejection. Not that there was really anything to reject, they weren't a thing. Not really. "I guess I got so angry because I don't need anyone to protect me anymore, San. I've made it this far by myself and I'm pretty proud of that."

It's ok, just take it, because it doesn't matter because her and Quinn aren't like that… wait what?

She must have said that out loud because Quinn was looking at her strangely.

"I said I don't need you fighting my battles. But its ok, you just were doing what you used to always do when we were younger," Quinn reiterated. Santana was still stuck on the first part, slowly digesting it.

"So, that's why you were pissed at me?" she managed to get out, digressing only slightly. Quinn furrowed her brow and cocked her head to the side

"Yes," Quinn confirmed, apprehensively. She looked quite befuddled when Santana let out a belly of air and even laughed a little. Well the bullet had barely grazed her ear but she had somehow dodged it. "What did you think I was mad about?" Quinn asked.

Shit. She froze again, and the way Quinn was looking at her, as attentive as a hawk eying his dying prey, she knew a lie wouldn't get past her, not a word.

"I, um, I guess I thought you were all in a gay panic over me being super territorial," she sputtered. Not the most delicate phrasing, but oh well. There it was. Quinn made a thin line with her lips. Santana grabbed a cupcake and proceeded to blockade her mouth with it, in case any other repressed thoughts decided to burst forth.

"Oh that," Quinn said. She peered at Santana trying to hold it together out of the corner of her eye and a smirk crept up into her cheek. "I don't mind that, I mean it was actually kind of hot." At this, Santana choked on the dry cake filling her airway. Quinn nipped lightly at her own pink treat as she looked out into the street, grinning cheekily at her own doing.

Santana swallowed lumps of cake furiously in an attempt to put respiratory system at ease. As the sun rose to bathe the street in warmth, it hit Quinn's face and Santana found herself doing that terribly cliched act of staring dumbly. She just couldn't help it, and until she cleared her throat, there wasn't much else to do but admire this upgrade she didn't remember trading the old Quinn for.

That girl, doe-eyed with clips in her hair and a tearful chip on her shoulder, was gone. Sitting next to her was this independent and self actualized person, more so that she had been in their former years as insecure head bitches in charge, surviving solely off of green juices and the fearful admiration of their peers. Quinn didn't have to convince Santana; she saw it now. Somewhere along the line, her best friend had built a more sturdy version of herself out of the sticks and stones she'd been bombarded with all her life. Some of those stones cast by Santana herself. This Quinn didn't need protection, not anymore.

Well shit, Fabray.

If Quinn was aware of Santana staring at her, she let her indulge.

"Hot, huh?" Santana finally managed to croak, hoping the moment hadn't passed. Quinn looked back in her direction and shrugged.

"Sure. Every girl wants to be wanted like that, to be the one people fight over," she elaborated. Quinn held the conversation as if they were talking about the consistency of the frosting and not Santana proclaiming Quinn as hers. It freaked Santana out, so it must not sit well with tight-like-my-bond-with-Jesus Quinn, on Easter of all days.

"Okay," she sighed, narrowing her eyes at Quinn who lapped at the creamy topping innocently. "McKinley's favorite damsel in distress slays her own dragons now. Noted."

Quinn nodded, and added, "Yep, took a page out of your book. The results exceed my expectations." She stared intently at Santana, as if the words were placeholders for her mouth while something else entirely danced behind her eyes. Still, she licked the frosting. Lick, lick, lick. It was so damn hypnotizing.

Before Santana could make heads or tails of any of it, a mass of technicolor seemed to take over the street in front of them, out of nowhere. People adorned with what appeared to be parade floats on their heads were wandering around in the vacant space where 5th Avenue was usually bumper to bumper with vehicles.

A peal of laughter erupted from Quinn, and she stood up suddenly.

"Oh my god, it's the Easter Parade! I forgot about this!" she exclaimed. She looked down at Santana who was befuddled by what was happening. Quinn bent down to grab the box of what was left of the cupcakes and began climbing the steps. "Come on! Lets get up higher so we can see better."

Santana groaned as she stood up. Turning around, she realized that in her emotional crisis, she didn't realize they were sitting on the steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral. Quinn had settled on a spot on the northern corner of the elevation, against one of the turrets of the scaffolding obscuring the facade. Santana made her way over to her blonde companion. She was already craning her neck to take it all in.

It was bizarre, that's for sure. Most people were in head-to-toe costumes based around their headgear. There were the occasional old black ladies dressed to the nines in their sun hats and frilly dresses, but the rest were all about their art installations. What any of this menagerie of costumes had to do with Easter, Santana hadn't the slightest idea. But Quinn seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, and so they stood on the steps and enjoyed the view.

"This is as close to a church as I'll ever get, just so you know," Santana quipped. Quinn grinned back at her wickedly and nodded.

She quipped right back at her, "Yeah, you'd probably light on fire otherwise. Don't want to risk it." There might have been an actual glint in her eye, like the sort poems waxed dramatically on and on about. It also might have been the sunlight. Who can say.

Santana laughed as she bumped Quinn's shoulder, agreeing, "Exactly."


	5. Everlasting Arms

**_Notes: I can't express how amazing the reviews are and I'm not even halfway through! Thank you so much for taking the time to tell me what you think, it's incredibly motivating. Anyway, without further ado..._**

**_..._**

**May 2015**

Quinn swore she could hear typing in her sleep, it echoed in her head so incessantly these days. Today especially, it was all around her. Dead air, no talking, no music or movement, just the clacking of keyboards in the intern alcove.

It didn't help that it was one of those filler days. The sort of day where time drags its sulky hands around the face of the clock and it so happened to coincide with the first blossoming day of spring in the city. It looked that way, at least. Quinn wouldn't know. Her commute to the law firm was shrouded in daybreak mist and she had been chained to her cubicle ever since. From what she could see out the conference room, which was thankfully a glass room, the sun beamed and even the cool steel of the adjacent skyscraper was warmed by it's appearance after all this time in the dark of winter.

But it was Tuesday and only 10 a.m. and lunch was a lifetime away. She had been swimming in paperwork all morning and by the looks of it, it would be another day of nipping down to the concourse for a salad and shoveling it into her mouth at her desk.

It came with the intern territory, Quinn knows.

So, she picked up her pen and abandoned her sunny whims to resume the tasks she'd been given that day. No sense in pining after what she knew she couldn't have. It never did her any good.

She was only a few into the stack on her left when her boss's secretary hovered expectantly over the low wall behind her computer. Quinn lifted her head and awaited instruction.

"Your school called," she stated, her Queens accent weighing down on the vowels of her baritone voice. "Said something about a meeting with your advisor that got rescheduled. You're dismissed for the day."

Quinn blinked up at her painstakingly attended eyebrows. That was strange, she didn't have a meeting scheduled in the first place. Should she talk to her boss about this? Although, the secretary was technically responsible for the comings and goings of her group of interns, so if she said to hightail it, no need to run it by the head of the department. She managed a confused nod, and went to go pick up her phone and call the advising office for more information.

Her cell was already alight with a text from Santana.

_I'm busting you out. _

Quinn's cheeks fought the oncoming grin as she gathered her things, grabbed her trench coat, and tried to not have too much of a skip in her step as she traipsed down the marble floored corridor past her visibly envious fellow interns. She watched the numbers in the elevator descend, tongue in her cheek to keep her glee at bay.

Sure enough, Santana was waiting at the foot of the building. She craned her neck and stood stiffly as she furrowed her brow in faux interest in the fountain. A proud smile formed as she turned to Quinn, emerging from the revolving door.

"Ah, here she is, Miss Fabray," Santana purported. She puffed her chest out, and her voluminous mane gave her the likeness of some sort of ridiculous forest creature. "I need your legal counseling."

Quinn crossed her arms, "You dragged me down here because you did something reckless and stupid?" She hardly contained her lack of surprise.

"I haven't _yet_," Santana corrected, waving a finger. "If I put a stray cat in Rachel's room and she died because of her allergy, would that mean I would go to jail?"

"Santana!"

"Technically, the cat is the murderer, I only enabled it. So that makes me an accessory or an accomplice?"

"You can't kill Rachel," Quinn declared rather firmly.

"Mmm, no, not kill her. See, the goal here is to just incapacitate her. So I can breathe for a few days without her incessant pecking up in my face all the time." Santana looked at Quinn like this was perfectly reasonable, a fair repercussion to Rachel's probably innocuous offenses.

Quinn sighed and offered, "I'll ask around for you."

"Gee thanks, Q," Santana beamed, linking their arms together. "Aren't you a pal."

They meandered down 6th Avenue in the late morning warmth. Quinn's assumptions from her office roost has been correct. The entire avenue was buzzing with suits who had shed their blazers and emerged in energetic full force for the first tepid spring day. The early lunch crowd had decided to dip out even earlier, it seemed, as they navigated through the throngs of grinning young financials and trays of the first iced coffees of the season. As they approached the fountains, the edges were at full occupancy, packed butt to butt like a middle school cafeteria with food trucks crammed into the side streets. Everywhere you looked was a blended mass of the varying shades of Brooks Brother's baby blue, from pastel almost down to slate. Watching corporate New York emerge from hibernation was the most joyful celebration of spring Quinn had ever seen.

By the time they reached the cavernous entrance to the subway, Quinn had her own coat draped off of her arm and her own case of spring fever.

Turns out, the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens are free on Tuesdays. Santana's favorite kind of activity is free, so Quinn was not surprised that it was the itinerary. They packed in against the railing of the little hut on the koi pond amongst a gaggle of hasidic school girls in their navy pleats. The pond stretched out to the far left, lined with drooping willows and footpaths winding up hills and out of sight. It was so quiet, the loudest sound was the plop of the fish and the turtles as they broke the surface of the water.

"Who knew all of this was hiding in Brooklyn?" Santana remarked. Quinn agreed, and wrapped Santana's hand in her own, pressing on to explore more of the gardens.

Santana's impulse was spot on. It was peak season for almost everything. One after the other, they moved through swaths of citrus colored tulips and trees drooping with delicate magnolias, lily pad ponds and a cluster of gleaming old victorian greenhouses. They snuck sandwiches from the cafe down to the green between two lanes of cherry trees so prim and proper, it would seem a old English country house should sit at the other end. The blossoms bore the most delicious shade of plum, and they smelled equally as mouth watering.

Head to head, they laid down on the grass beneath the aquiline sky and they probably would have named the shapes of the clouds that passed, if only there were clouds to be seen. Instead, Quinn nestled the crown of her head against Santana's shoulder, and felt their cheeks graze, they laid so close.

It had been a long time since she had experienced the weightless sublime of freedom. It hit her how much she needed this, to -one years had come and gone in flashes like lens flares and darting express trains, spent and stowed away now in drawers and boxes and eight dollar frames. It scared her, bottomed out her stomach, that she was in fact getting older, speeding along down a track that wasn't going to slow down.

.And yet, they were both still young, terrifyingly so. With the grass tickling her calves and the adrenaline of hookey, she actually felt her burning scarlet muscles and her quickening pulse. Quinn basked in the remains of her youth. She inhaled twenty one for the first time, unfettered by filial burdens of the past or exhausting ambitions for the future. It made her giddy to the point where her cheeks ached from her grin.

She had her qualms with Santana, that's for sure, but her emotional intuition was spot on when it came to Quinn. No one else had ever cared enough to think about her like that. She turned the notion over in her mind that , if Santana was the only one she had managed to hold on to, out of all the people she'd burned through in high school, that might be enough. She reminded herself that Brittany had also been a recipient of this special treatment, to keep the self-satisfied tingle at bay.

She dared to compliment Santana on their destination choice, and Santana quipped how she knows all the hot places in town, and Quinn should never doubt her. Quinn was quick to remind her of the Chinese massage parlor that Santana had led them to, claiming rock bottom prices, only for them to figure out it was because most people went there for the "happy ending."

Santana hummed a rumbling laugh at the memory, and Quinn could feel her cheek crinkle to accommodate the smile. She leaned into it without a second thought, twiddling her cross between her thumb and forefinger. Santana had ripped a chunk out of the turkey and swiss, and she held the sandwich over her head to pass it over, but let go before Quinn's fingers could grasp it. The sandwich came down, splat on her face, throwing Santana into another laughing spell. Quinn fell victim to Santana's infectious snicker as she swiped the mayonnaise from her cheek and swatted Santana's face with their lunch.

Santana followed Quinn with no complaints through every maze of manicured hedges and across every lawn and thicket of lavender and tangerine flora, seeming to sprout from every rock and patch of dirt. Quinn finally stopped for a beat at the bluebell wood behind two older women drawing the endless expanse of indigo before them. Something out of a fairytale, they completely covered the ground around thick oak trees in every direction, bathed in light here and there by gaps in the canopies overhead.

Santana's snicker spun Quinn around.

"What?" she snapped at her friend's bemused smirk.

Santana shrugged, "Nothing, Q. Carry on."

Quinn led them down the small path through the bluebells with Santana still grinning like a cat with a mouse between it's paws.

"Seriously, what?" she laughed, because it was hard not to laugh at such an expression.

"You're just such a cliche, Fabray," Santana decreed. Quinn's mouth hung open.

"Why, because I like flowers?"

"You should have seen your face. You were all moony-eyed and shit, like you're in one of those old movies and your name is something like Rebecca Grace Hawthorne, you know?" Santana explained. She stepped in front of Quinn, her face morphing into one of pure adoration and shock. She put on a horrible southern accent and drawled, "Oh, Henry, these are just 'bout the most _mahhhvelous_ bluebells I've ever seen. Oh my stars, I feel like the luckiest girl in all of Geawwwwgia!"

Quinn shoved her before she fell into a fit of snickering along with her, trying to defend herself feebly, "Shut up, I don't even talk like that..."

The sun began to wane as it filtered through the ivy crawling down from the lattice. They strolled lazily up the final bend, opting out of the rose garden, because Quinn decided it was "too cliche" and Santana guffawed, glad to know where Quinn drew the line. The hedge lined steps ascending to the Osborne garden led to an open blue sky. It wasn't until they reached the top that they could take in perhaps the most masterful of the gardens thus far.

A stone fountain rested before them as the point of symmetry for the mirrored lanes on either side of a shamrock green lawn. Hedges lined with fuchsia bushes ran alongside the arbors shading the paths, one after the other, dripping with wisteria. Even Santana's eyebrows rose, and she smiled as the picked a side to start down. The whole setting seemed transplanted from an old Victorian fairy tale, almost as if the flowers had sprouted from the pages themselves.

Quinn's neck ached from staring up at the sheets of periwinkle by the time they reached a unbroken semicircle of concrete benches that cupped the end of the garden.

"Oh I've heard of these! They're called the whisper benches," Quinn exclaimed. She scurried over to the corner closest to them and wedged herself as close to the pillar as possible.

"What the hell are you doing."

"Go sit at the other end!"

"Um, why?"

"Trust me! Just go, San."

Santana huffed and plodded over to the other end, plopped herself down on the bench. Quinn turned her head and whispered.

"Santana…"

Nothing. Santana sat slouched against the arc of the stone, unmoved. She tried cupping her mouth and increasing her volume a little.

"Santana, can you hear me?"

Still nothing. Although, Santana was looking at her like she was a crazy person. She leaned forward to stand, but Quinn waved her hands for her to stay sitting. She complied with another huff, and Quinn cleared her throat.

"San, can you hear this?" she tried again at a normal speaking volume. Santana sat up with a start, and she could faintly hear her spew an expletive or two. Quinn laughed, and continued, "Say something!"

Santana mimicked her and Quinn strained her ear to pick up her words.

"If you can hear me, Berry sucks."

Quinn's shoulders slumped in exasperation, as the faint echo of Santana chuckling at herself filled the garden.

"That's all you could think of?" Quinn chided her as she approached where she sat still the cheshire cat she was.

"Its the first thing that came to my mind," she replied with a shrug. Fortunately, the gates were just behind the benches, so Quinn could drag her onto the streets of Brooklyn before she called her "Miss Rebecca Grace" one more time.

**...**

Santana dumped her keys and purse on the little table Rachel insisted on putting next to the door so they could be "civilized." The slam of the door closing reverberated throughout the apartment.

"Benefit of being home all day during the week? The sparkle squad is at work and I have the place to myself," said Santana, as she waltzed over to the living room window and flung it open.

"It really is quieter, almost eerie," Quinn agreed. She had reemerged from Santana's room, where she helped herself to a pair of sweatpants to get out of her corporate clothes. Santana eyed her and held back a little smile at the sight, not to mention that she didn't even ask, or assume she needed to.

Quinn joined her on the sofa, stretching out with a sigh of relief at getting off her feet.

"Hey, I want to show you something," Santana declared. She points the remote at the tv and clicks through a few things, before some movie plays with explosions and what not. "Check it out!" Santana points to the info-box at the foot of the screen.

Quinn sits up and cries, "HBO? No shit? Since when?"

"Since last month," Santana bragged smugly.

"You've been hiding HBO from me for a month? Bitch," Quinn growled. She snatched the remote from Santana's hands, and pulled up the on-demand menu.

Santana reclined on the couch with her hands behind her head, and sighed, "I know, it's actually amazing. It's our first real adult purchase. I mean what's next? A four door sedan? Central air conditioning?"

Quinn snorted, and groaned wistfully, "Even I'm jealous."

"Well, have at it Q," Santana offered, "Pick something, whatever your little basic cable heart desires." Quinn was already ahead of her, and she was going through a few episodes of something.

"Do you watch VEEP? It's hilarious, we're watching it," she not so much asked, but

announced as she finally picked one.

"What's it about?"

"It's about if the Vice President was…"

"Ugh, Quinn of course."

"It's good! It's chock full of dry feminist humor, which is basically you, and you said I can pick, and oh look, it's starting."

Santana grumbled and kicked her legs up on the coffee table in begrudging acquiesce while Quinn sank down into the couch, pleased.

By the time the end credits rolled, Santana had to admit it _was_ funny. She was all for some girl power, sure, and she felt a special connection to that Sue character. She wouldn't acknowledge that it was refreshing to sit with Quinn so unwound, laughing, her hair up in a stubby ponytail, and all that, and how it made it easy to get into the damn show when Quinn selected the next episode.

The breeze had found their window, making a few tentative rounds through the apartment. Neither of them had bothered to flick on any lights, so they lounged the afternoon away in the waning sunlight. Santana supplied them with some tortilla chips and a likely stale bottle of wine, and they munched and choked on the crumbs with their laughter and drank straight from the bottle. By the third episode Quinn had fallen against her side, and Santana was acutely aware of the movements of her jaw against her shoulder as she crunched on the chips. By the 8th episode, Quinn's head was in her lap, drooling slightly as sleep took over. It wasn't cute, it wasn't.

Santana absentmindedly stroked the loose tendrils of hair that slipped out of her ponytail. She figured she might as well finish the episode, now that she didn't hate the show so much, and the bag of chips was mostly demolished, so might as well polish that off too. She may not fully understand it, but she could just tack it onto the list of things involving Quinn she would never understand.

She basked in her choice of afternoon activity and smiled as her head hit the back of the couch. It was nice, the tv running, the empty bottle of wine, Quinn weighing down her leg. It was really nice. It felt nice. Being with Quinn felt nice.

She almost hurled the bottle at whoever barged through the door and broke her reverie, bags banging and keys clamoring. It was Rachel, because of course it was, and of course she executed every entrance with the same dramatic flair she employed on the stage.

"Hey Santana!" she greeted, her face falling when Santana mimed slitting her throat.

"Quinn's sleeping. Keep it down," she hissed. Rachel nodded and grimaced playfully at her own antics. "Chill with the theatrics. I know you didn't mean it, Sasquatch, I'm taking her to my room."

Rachel stole a few glances at Santana turning off the tv and gently waking Quinn up with a few slow rubs on her back.

"Come on, sleepy head, lets go to my room," she cooed. Rachel smiled to herself and Santana caught her as she patted a now risen Quinn on the small of her back. "What, Berry?"

"Nothing," Rachel squeaked, shaking her head and disappearing off into her own room.

Quinn yawned and watched Rachel retreat, asking, "Was that Rachel?"

"Yeah, not minding her own business," Santana answered. Quinn chuckled, her voice raspy with sleep.

"Leave her alone, she means well," she ordered, albeit weakly and clipped by another yawn at reaching Santana's bed. She fell back onto it and knocked a few pillows onto the floor as she sank into the mattress.

Santana stretched out parallel to her and pulled her laptop onto her knees, preparing to entertain herself until her shift while Quinn dozed.

"You know what's strange about today?" Quinn baited.

"What?" replied Santana , not shifting her attention from her screen.

"We spent the whole day together and we didn't have sex," Quinn mused. This snagged Santana's attention, and she peered down at Quinn amongst the bedlinen.

Santana smirked, and mocked, "That's a first, usually you're trying to get into my pants within the hour." That got her a pillow to the face, at which she clutched her laptop protectively. "Watch the merchandise, Q! Not all of us have law salaries to throw around."

Quinn pouted, and grumbled, "I'm an intern, I don't get paid any salary. And _you're _the one always trying to get up _my _skirt."

Santana chuckled at the grumpy blonde in her bed, hair mussed with sleep and her once pressed blue shirt bunched up around her waist. She was impossibly sexy. Always. It was a goddamn mystery. Santana snapped her laptop shut, deposited it on her bedside table and cozied on up to Quinn on her cloud of pillows.

"Well, we can fix that. It only takes me 10 minutes max on you," she purred. Her fingers began to deftly pop the buttons on Quinn's oxford, a skill she has gotten quite good at with one hand.

Quinn quirked an eyebrow and flipped onto her side to mirror Santana. A warm smile took over her features and she lifted her hand towards Santana's face, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear.

"No, there's nothing to fix, it was a great day. How about… top the day off," Quinn amended. Her buttery voice was barely audible and Santana realized that her touch had lingered down her jawline. Something in her stomach turned, no worse; fluttered. But she tried to shelved it.

She gulped back the sensation, reduced it to her being ticklish or just freaked out by Quinn staring at her that long, with that lazy smile that she gets and, god, that lip between her teeth.

Santana employed more physical means of attempting to suppress whatever was attempting to grow in her gut. She pulled Quinn's face towards her and kissed her deeply, filthily almost. She tried to inhale Quinn to override whatever was happening, to halt it in it's tracks, and spare Santana the impending heartbreak that romcoms and teen dramas warned her about over and over. Christ, she had even lived through this before. She wasn't going there again, not with Quinn. Quinn was a bitch, snooty and entitled and Santana barely tolerated her.

The girl on her mind pulled back for a moment to catch her breath.

"Well," she huffed, "I'm certainly awake now."

"Shut up," Santana breathed and she dove in again, tugging Quinn's clothes off of her. She couldn't look at her right now. It was just sex. Hot, fast, and a little bit rough, sex with some girl she happened to know from high school. The skin, slick and warm beneath her hands was the same skin of that cheek she slapped in the halls of McKinley. The vanilla mounds, pushing against their lace encasement as her chest arched towards Santana's mouth, could belong to any cheerleader from that locker room. Santana was guilty of sneaking a few peeks over the years, never one to waste an opportunity. And those whines and gasps stringing together the syllables of her name, as her fingers were completely consumed down to her knuckles, were the same slurred mumbles from that hotel room. The purred the same, spilling from Quinn's mouth into her ear.

This was way too much thought for her present disposal. She almost didn't notice how fast she was going, how quickly she was undoing the blonde writhing beneath her. She lifted her head from her right breast just in time to witness the eruption. Like everything else, Quinn still came the same, thighs clenching around Santana's wrist and stubby nails digging into her shoulder blades. Her breathing stalled and started in piercing bursts.

She's still Santana Lopez and Quinn is still Quinn and if things changed, she would've definitely noticed.

She slipped into sleep shortly after with the already drowsy Quinn. It was pressure on her arm that woke her up, the sky dark and an hour away from her alarm sounding she was going to be late for her shift.

Somewhere in the half-conscious realm of her mind, she put together that it was Quinn, naked Quinn, whose body weight was on her arm because Quinn was _in _her arms and they were fucking spooning. Naked.

And she woke up because Quinn woke up. Her body was moving against, but not exactly resisting, Santana's hold; that not so subtle wiggle to test if your bed buddy was also awake or not.

"San..?" she started, trying to turn around to lay face to face, but Santana couldn't deal with this, not now. She shushed her, mumbled that she was just cold, and pulled Quinn's furnace of a body into her chest.

"Okay," Quinn relented, and she shifted again, this time closer into the embrace. Santana's ears and neck burned at being so flush against her friend. Her nose nestled into Quinn's soft neck, thanks to her return to her short haircut. She could have sworn Quinn sucked in a little gasp at the contact, but at this point she could already be dreaming. Either way, she melted into Santana and wasn't awake much longer.

As she let sleep drag her under, Santana felt the faint tickle in her abdomen. It was barely there, nearly suffocated. A subtle change in the tide. A platelet shift just weak enough to avoid the richter scale. But she felt it, and it was unmistakable.

Shit.


	6. Finger Back

**_Notes: Another small change. Rachel's birthday is in July in this story. Also this chapter is really near and dear to me. _****_I rewrote it over and over so_** I hope I get across what I tried to convey. Anyway...

**_..._**

**June 2015**

**...**

Quinn pressed down firmly on the standard grade buzzer of Santana's apartment number. The artificial chime was quickly followed by the click of the lock opening, and she nudged her way into the hall with her shoulder. Up the flights of the walk up and she was greeted by a cheery Rachel Berry.

"Hi Quinn! What brings you to our neck of the woods?" she asked, moving aside to let Quinn into the apartment.

"Santana and I have plans," Quinn answered. Her shoulders slumped when Rachel adopted a grimace. "She's not awake, is she."

Rachel shook her head, "Well no, but I'm sure…"

Quinn rolled her eyes, and strolled over to Santana's door, which she flung open with a bang. From the doorframe, she chucked her shoe at the lump in the bed.

"Jesus, what the fuck was that?" the lump groaned, before shooting up from the blankets with a snarl.

"It's Quinn, the one who you were supposed to meet this morning, _outside_ your apartment 20 minutes ago."

Santana narrowed her eyes at Quinn, searching for the memory of laid plans in her obnoxiously cute polkadot sundress.

"Shit, bikes. You wanted to do some bike thing," she finally remembered.

"Ding! Congratulations, you remembered. Thank god you're dressed and ready," Quinn deadpanned. Santana ran a hand down her face and slowly crawled out from her duvet haven.

Quinn approached the bed at a slow saunter. Santana didn't notice her proximity until she was standing next to her. She jolted as she stood up straight from collecting a shirt off her windowsill and was face to face with a mop of blonde hair. Quinn nearly snorted, and Santana laughed weakly.

"Don't look so scared," Quinn cooed. She bent at the waist to hook her shoe on her forefinger. "I'm just getting my shoe back." She held Santana's gaze for one beat too many, she just couldn't help herself. Being this close to her was like entering her gravitational pull and there was no other direction to go but even closer.

Santana shot her a weird look before turning to access her closet. In a moment of impulse, Quinn grabbed her arm and pulled her into a kiss that shocked both of them. It was deep, with Quinn nipping at her bottom lip as she pulled away. She slid her other hand off of Santana's cheek, where she didn't remember putting it, and knotted it in a lock of black hair dangling from her shoulder.

"You can make it up to me later by letting me have my turn first," Quinn uttered. Her voice was laced with the shock of her own actions, thick and choppy. Luckily, Santana broke the tension and smirked, as she always does when baited with sex.

"Sound's like a fair punishment," she shrugged. Quinn felt a breeze of cold air as Santana stepped back to put distance between them. She was about to write off the strange poignancy of their daylight affection, considering Santana remained as unaffected as usual.

That was until Santana doubled back with a clearing of her throat, and grabbed the shirt she had been holding from the ground where she had dropped it at Quinn's feet.

It took Santana 20 minutes of digging through t-shirts and a quick application of makeup which Quinn told her she would sweat off anyway, before she dragged her out the door.

Quinn had insisted on starting down in the West Village. A little bike shop right on the highway provided them with two cruisers, and up they went with the mid afternoon sun beating down on their backs. It was not a harrowing trek, but it was uphill and it was the middle of summer and it was about the entire length of the island. They hardly made it to the 60's before Santana began huffing and puffing and bitching about how her legs were going to fall off.

Quinn mentally grappled with how strange it was, riding a bike. She hadn't done it in at least 5 or 6 years, but the motions and sensations took her to a blurred nostalgic place. Almost as if being on the bike, propelling herself forward at this pleasantly smooth speed, the breeze catching in her skirt, resurrected this freeing autonomy she felt as a kid, traversing all of Lima at her own will. Paired with the contemporary setting of her partially-adult life, gliding up the tar path she felt weightless, suspended between memory and her dazzling reality.

The bike path ran alongside the cars and trucks hastening up north, in and out of the Chelsea Piers and various west side parks. Quinn marveled at the morphing cityscape to her right, how the glistening glass towers of midtown gave way to industrial and pre-war brick structures, stubby in comparison. The highway carried on dutifully along side them until it dashed inward towards the city, in exchange for the stacked greenery of Riverside Park.

Their path had taken them right down along the river, where Quinn slowed her bike up to an unoccupied bench and slung her leg over the seat to dismount. She waited, hand on hip, for Santana to chug up to the bench from down the way. Out of breath, brow dripping, and a scowl fixed right on her face, she nearly collapsed on the wooden bench. Quinn smiled sweetly, maybe a little tired herself, but otherwise unfazed by their aerobic afternoon.

"We're basically here," Quinn stated. She glanced behind her at a verdant expanse of soccer fields, elevated about three feet off the ground on which they stood. Families were piled in against the fence as little boys in jersey's two sizes too big darted to and fro.

"Where," Santana squeaked, "is here?"

"Columbia. We're at about 101st street, which is close enough."

Santana dropped her head back and groaned.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" she cried. Quinn pulled a water bottle out of her basket and extended it as an olive branch of sorts to Santana. While still severely annoyed, she did take the bottle and guzzle it gratefully.

"Okay, Quinn, why the fuck did you drag my ass all the way up to Columbia?" Santana asked, after her breathing regulated itself a bit more.

"It's where I'm applying to law school. I wanted to see what it's like up here, like, to live," she explained. Santana was tugging on her shirt to facilitate air flow down it, and shooting Quinn an incredulous glare.

"And you couldn't just look at the pictures on the website or some shit? Christ," griped Santana.

Quinn shrugged and mused, "Probably, but it's not the same, and I didn't want to do it by myself. It was a good workout!"

"You almost killed me, Fabray," Santana growled, "Remind me to return the favor."

"How about I buy you a popsicle or something to make it up to you?" Quinn offered. Santana mulled it over and wiped her forearm across her forehead.

"You're more than welcome to try, see if eases the burning hatred in my veins, but it might take a few popsicles," she bargained. Quinn caught the relenting glint start to form in her friend's eye. She laughed bitterly, and shook her head.

"You're incorrigible. Why did I bring you."

Santana extended her hand out to grasp the Magnum bar as Quinn returned from the ice cream cart. She hadn't moved from the bench, not an inch. Her bike was strewn against the wall rather vindictively.

"So how was your date?" Santana blurted out, mouthful of ice cream. Quinn almost choked on the chunk of fruit pop she'd bitten off. Santana just stared ahead, calmly chewing.

"It wasn't a date, and who told you?" Quinn stuttered. She studied Santana for any signs of an oncoming attack, the cutting edges of digs sharpening themselves on her tongue, or something along those lines.

"Who do you think? All Berry talks about is us," Santana said. She took another hunk out of the chocolate shell as a few skateboarders whizzed past.

"Us?"

Santana shot her a look, "You know what I mean, like either you or me."

"I."

"Fuck off."

"So you talk to Rachel? Often?" Quinn taunted. She lapped up a drip that was rolling down the side of her popsicle.

"No," Santana grumbled. "Only when I have to. Kurt made me try and figure out what cake she likes the other day."

Quinn raised her eyebrow, and jumped on the subject, "You're getting her a cake? For her birthday?"

"Kurt and I are going halfsies," she corrected. Quinn grinned, like she'd just discovered the most delicious secret. "Oh don't look at me like that, Q."

Quinn hummed, "Mmm, I think you're going soft, Santana Lopez."

Santana scoffed, and leaned back against the wood panels of the bench. Quinn continued to peer at her out of the corner of her eye, gumming another chunk off her fruit bar.

"I have to make good with them, or else they could gang up and kick me out. It's basic survival tactics, Quinnie, a bitch gots to look out for herself, 'round here," she explained.

Quinn noted her slight shrug, knowing she was attempting to be aloof, however unsuccessfully. She nodded, accepting the explanation and joined Santana leaning back on the bench. The two slurped and munched on their treats for a few minutes of silence, absorbing some vitamin-D and the hilly coastline of New Jersey running parallel across the way.

"Rachel's not so bad, San, and she likes you, which is a miracle in and of itself," Quinn said softly. Santana sighed dramatically.

"Yeah, I know," she ruefully acknowledged, combing her free hand through her dark waves. "She has her moments, I suppose."

Quinn merely glanced over at her, careful not to disturb the nice streak currently creeping into Santana's conscience. She sucked on the chunk of frozen strawberry and bobbed her head in accordance.

"And it's useful having a vegan in the apartment, because now I know who swipes my chorizo," she continued.

"Kurt is stealing your sausage?"

"There's a sentence I never thought I'd hear."

Quinn actually did snort this time, and Santana smiled at the outburst, chuckling a bit herself. The blonde shook her head and let her immaturity wash over her for a moment. Santana always brought out the worst in her, but in the best ways, if that makes any sense at all. Nothing about their friendship made any sense, really, yet she only found herself with that buoyant, warm fuzz in her gut around Santana. The very same that causes her to break out into such easy laughter like that. If Quinn had time to analyze this dynamic a bit more, she'd find herself down a hallway in her mind that she painstakingly avoided, lined with doors she kept latched shut.

Despite the insistence of her freshman philosophy professor, she did not possess the fundamental human desire to know. She had no craving to empty the contents in the pockets of her life. Quinn sought the abstract, the peaceful blur of the undefined, because as the details disappear into obscurity, so do the faults, the flaws, and the glaring realities that challenge the core of her psyche. No need to wipe the fog from the glass and find something under the surface. Something you can't un-see. Her and Aristotle did not get on so well, to say the least.

"Anyway, as much as I like talking about myself, enough deflecting," Santana resumed. She rotated her body to look directly at Quinn, who was eying Santana uneasily. "How did your date go?"

"It wasn't a date, it was a networking meeting," Quinn reiterated.

"It was just the two of you, Q, and you went to get drinks, not a power lunch at the Palm. It was a date," Santana insisted. She flicked her ice cream at Quinn pointedly and scattered a few droplets of melted vanilla on the space between them.

"Professionals go get drinks all the time after work, Santana," Quinn pushed back, "I'm sure you see it all the time at your job."

Santana barked a laugh, and shook her head.

"What I see, is no straight male would take a hot, young, piece of ass like you out for drinks after 6 p.m. unless he's trying to hit it."

Santana wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, and dragged her tongue up the remaining side of her ice cream bar. Quinn smacked her arm and Santana cried out at almost dropping her ice cream. She tried not to focus on the fact that Santana basically just called her hot. She broke off another piece of her ice cream bar to try and cool down her flushed cheeks.

"Have you ever considered that maybe I might be able to hold a conversation with someone about work that doesn't involve hooking up in the supply room? That I might have something meaningful to say?" Quinn argued. She bristled, just a little. She hated being reduced to something superficial. It got old, real fast.

"Have _you_ ever considered that girls like you don't have to? Hike up your skirt a little, put on a red lip, a pump, and boom. They fall at your feet," Santana insisted. Quinn laughed, but cast her eyes down in her lap. It all sounded so simple and easy, sure, but her gut twisted in objection. Santana must have caught it, because she furrowed her brow mid-lick.

"Look, I'm sure that happens a lot, but not to me. He, and any of the other guys at my internship, don't see me like that, okay? I haven't been that girl in a long time," Quinn stated, her voice softly assured. Santana looked like she was about to unload her argument on the matter, but she kept moving the piece of ice cream around in her mouth contemplatively.

"Sure," she eventually acquiesced. A breezy silence blanketed over them as they finished up their treats. Quinn kept sneaking glances at her mute friend, only to find her staring straight ahead, taking an interest in the park surrounding them. The sun had begun to sink, but hardly in any rush, taking it's time and stretching the balmy afternoon thin across the Hudson River. It was just getting started. There were two more months of blistering, endless heat to come.

The river looked quite serene from their altitude. Quinn admired the steady chain of wakes circling boats and freighters that plodded along. What a seductive mystery it was, what sorts of dropped keys or sunken ships laid dormant below the surface. And still, the river rolled steadily along, blithely unaware of these architects of the riverbed who quietly dictated it's currents from the dark depths below. Perhaps it was the terrifying parallel it held to her own life that forced her to look away.

"It's not so bad up here," Santana piped up. Quinn turned her head to confront the statement. She pulled her fingers from her gold cross to tuck some hair from her face, displaced in the sudden breeze.

"Really?" she balked. Santana shrugged, and turned to catch a glimpse of the soccer teams in the handshake lineup, indicating the sportsmanlike ending to their game.

"Yeah," she replied. "It's sort of peaceful. Charming."

She was right. There wasn't much going on in this neck of the woods. There was nothing to lure tourists into clogging the streets, and no bustling financial firms to drum up a din loud enough to permeate through the walls of an apartment. It was almost an oasis of pure New York, for New Yorkers, by New Yorkers. Quinn wasn't 100% sure what that really meant, but she did know it felt more personal up here. No frills, no gimmicks.

"I think I'm going to try and find a place up here if Columbia works out," Quinn announced.

Santana nodded slowly, "Yeah, I can see living here, despite how far it is from civilization."

Quinn's eyes darted towards Santana's subdued expression. She hadn't exactly extended an invitation. She tried to pull up a quip for how terrible the idea was that they should be living together, and came up blank. It was a surprisingly bearable notion.

Her bangs fell into her face as she shook her head. Don't be stupid. As much as her declaration of migration was not an invitation, Santana's musings about living up here were equally as nondescript.

It didn't stop the self-satisfied smile creeping across her face at the vaguest implication that Santana would maybe want to co-habitate with her, if she ever decided to offer. Nor did it keep Santana from returning it, beneath the faintest shade of red.

**...**

Santana tried, she really tried, to ignore it. That look of doubt that cast a shadow over Quinn's face that afternoon. Santana ignores the pain of others with the same ease she breathes in the toxic air of the five boroughs. She's actually quite adept at creating a little herself, feeds off it, she could venture to say.

So, _why_ does she feel like she punctured a lung when the damn rolodex of images of disadvantaged Quinn flashes across her mind? She's just trying to mind her own business. It wasn't helping that Quinn was bracing herself against the windowsill deep in thought, looking so fragile and, oh fuck it all.

This wasn't fun. You're not supposed to pity your sparring partner. It puts a filter on things and gives every zinger a bad aftertaste. It's dangerous territory, a slippery slope, one that ends in her heart smashed at the bottom a ravine. Santana knew her emotional range well; she either cares too much or not at all. After a simple risk evaluation of any given situation, she almost always favors the latter, and Quinn was an emotional landmine. She'd worked so hard to keep her at arms length, _so_ damn hard.

She wanted to leave. She'd used Quinn's shower for a quick body rinse and had more jovial plans to go home, eat a pizza, and text one of her coworkers to get trashed with her at a bar with a forgettable name. It was so close, just a few steps out the door and she could shake off this melancholy.

But, seeing her pick at the chipping, probably lead, paint on the wooden ledge like that and knowing what darts beneath the surface. It rooted her feet on the cusp of the bedroom area, that little lip where the tile edge met the hardwood, and held her eyes at Quinn's illuminated profile. The fluttering creature in her gut has many manipulative talents. She let her feet lead her to a precarious proximity behind Quinn.

Up the street, the clouds had adopted a golden hue along their edges as they trailed behind the blood orange sinking sun. The sky clung to the ashen blue of the afternoon, but it's efforts were futile against the inferno drawing everything in it's wake, even the dark silhouettes of the buildings, into the folds of the horizon.

It was easy to see how Quinn was so transfixed by all of it. It was nothing short of mesmerizing. It takes the quiet ones to find the quiet beauties in this city. She probably could fashion the sunset before them into a poetic metaphor for life or death or lost love one of those abstract concepts. Santana wouldn't remember this version of the sky by a year's passing, nor did she have such talent for words to immortalize it, and the few she had a grip on were limp and dead on her tongue.

Santana cleared her throat, and upon finding her voice, called out into the still air, "Q?"

Quinn glanced back over her shoulder, but turned completely around when Santana didn't continue. She met her searching gaze and was about to open her mouth when it was covered by warm lips. The slowest kiss Santana had ever given sucked all the air into her lungs, and only after she pulled their lips apart, cell by cell, did she release it in a shaky sigh.

"Santana…" Quinn whispered meekly, short on oxygen herself. But she wasn't filled with wonder. She was no stranger to that tone. Santana screwed her eyes shut so she wouldn't have to see the retreat in Quinn's eyes. She shook her head, halting Quinn's train of thought, because no. She needed to explain.

"Why are you so hard on yourself?" she mumbled. Her fingers toyed with the baby hairs, cotton soft tufts, on the nape of Quinn's neck. She felt the gulp drop down Quinn's throat.

"I'm not," Quinn denied.

"Don't bullshit me, Quinn."

Quinn emitted a pouty huff and shook her head.

"I'm just honest with myself, what does it matter?"

Santana looked up at her, finding the courage in the heat of Quinn's skin surging through her fingertips. Quinn wasn't recoiling or closing off, but her eyes crinkled and her brow twitched into a crease.

"So, be honest with me," Santana ordered. "What parts don't you like?" Santana watched her curl into herself, her eyes shifting to the windowsill and a sad smile weigh at the corners of her mouth. She tried to soften her expression to show Quinn she wasn't asking for ammunition. She was asking out of this tug in her ribcage that kept dragging her here, and she wasn't sure where it was going but she wouldn't hurt her, she couldn't. Not really. Not anymore.

"Santana, this is really not…"

"Just tell me, or show me."

Santana's unrelenting stare pulled a sigh out of Quinn, one that meant to be a laugh, one that broke her resolve. She pursed her lips and Santana waited patiently. Her hands Quinn wiped on her dress, at a loss of what else to do with them.

"I'm not too crazy about my thighs. They're thicker than I'd like them to be," she uttered. Santana nodded subtly. Her silence urged Quinn to continue. "And, I guess, my stomach. It just feels like it never got back to what it used to be after Beth. There's also the stretch marks, so…"

Santana filled the gaps in her confession by drawing her thumb across Quinn's ear. It was a strange gesture, but she had to do something to coax it all out of her.

"I'm not like you, you know. I'm not sexy and alluring with a D cup and a short skirt. I know that, I know I'm a frigid bitch," Quinn finished, her voice withering and trailing off into nothing. The familiar insult punched Santana in the gut.

"I didn't mean that, Q," was her poor attempt at an apology.

Quinn shrugged, and squeaked, "You were just calling it like you saw it. You always told me the truth, good or bad." Santana didn't know when she began shaking her head, but she felt it loosen a few bolts in her legs.

"No," she backpedaled, verbally and physically, "C'mere, Quinn." She pulled Quinn with her towards the bed and swallowed thickly when she felt her legs brush the edge. A few shallow breaths and she was on her lips once again. She pressed her mouth against Quinn's just enough to get her point across. She opened and closed and melded them together, taking her time to steal breath after breath from Quinn, who had lost her fingers in the dark waves of Santana's hair. She was all eyes closed, chest flush, and letting Santana open her like a book, crack the spine and thumb through the pages. When Santana slid her tongue from her mouth, Quinn whimpered and pulled Santana closer via her neck.

Breathless, Santana peeled her lips off Quinn's and mapped a trail of feather light kisses down her jaw and, as Quinn's head lolled to accommodate her, along the alabaster pillar of her throat. She left no traces of her journey, brushed lips to skin for only a tic.

Santana's hands skimmed down Quinn's sides to cup her hips and maneuver them down onto the sateen comforter. She fit her nose into the patch of skin beneath Quinn's ear, one arm snaking around the small of her back and the other under her rear. Quinn's arms, circled around Santana's neck, did the rest so she could move her up the bed and lay her down, gently, amidst her meticulously arranged pillows.

Quinn's breathing was pouring directly into her ear as she skimmed her parted lips along the lobe within her reach. Her hands reached down blindly for the smooth surface of Quinn's legs, to find them bent but parted, no ounce of contest.

She pulled her head up and hovered over Quinn's lips again, almost finding the words to impart that would be as sincere as she felt. Quinn's eyes, a foggy hazel, seemed to be asking for something. All Santana could see was the flicker, the shadow of the fluttering that beat its wings against her gut. Santana tried to break this unintended tension with a small smile, then she bowed her head, settled her hips between Quinn's limbs, and started her descent down her body.

Every movement was slow, deliberate, and every touch lingering. She punctuated each undoing of Quinn's dress buttons with a kiss pressed at the newly exposed skin. Her hands slid the cotton fabric of the skirt up around her hips.

Lips ghosted over Quinn's thighs, the very one's Quinn covered in A-line skirts and misplaced shame, succeeded by Santana's palms. Her arms curled around them and she laid kiss after ardent kiss along the tops of them and down the insides, where the muscles beneath spasmed every so often at the contact. She didn't stray from those thighs, not once dipping above them or even between them. This was important, _so_ important and Santana bit back the reasons why. She didn't pause until every inch between Quinn's knees and hips had been worshiped, nipped at, softened like butter beneath her steady hands.

Santana paused to sit up and take Quinn's dress up and off. Upon tugging the last of it over Quinn's head, they came face to face. Her pale hands combed through the black tresses of Santana's hair, giving her the green light to continue. Santana kissed the moment away and brought her focus down to Quinn's stomach.

There, she applied the same narrow focus, peppered kisses all over it. She dragged her fingers up and down Quinn's sides, painting over the years of doubt with admiration and appreciation for this heavenly body underneath her. She left wet, hot kisses at the slope of her hips. She hummed into the hollow at the base of her ribs. She ran the pad of her thumb across the webs of white lines that were the only visible reminder of what she went through. These Santana gave the lightest of pecks. There was some penance there to be given, for abandoning her best friend. The ache thrummed, somewhere between her organs, and it was maybe once guilt, but it's since evolved.

She raised her head from her ministrations to find Quinn giving her the oddest expression. Her lips were pressed into a thin line. Her cheeks were flushed. Santana dropped one last kiss to her abdomen and glided up to kiss lips that had parted by the time she reached them.

Santana pulled back a hair's breadth. Quinn's eyes were shut and she licked her lips anxiously and began to nod. A thank you, an acknowledgement, Santana couldn't be sure. Her nodding grew quick and frantic until Santana seized her by the jaw and kissed her maddeningly.

She shed her own clothes, laid her skin down upon Quinn's and drank up the moans and the mewls streaming from Quinn's mouth. She touched everywhere she could reach, savoring each dip and curve.

When Quinn was practically begging, Santana proceeded at a slow, rhythmic pace that drew out each stroke and roll of her hips. She carried a breathless Quinn to the brink and over the edge and pulled their bodies impossibly close as she blossomed in her arms. At every undoing, Santana's body flooded with heat, as if her blood became molten and tore through her, stealing her air supply and numbing her ears. As disorienting as it was, it was equally as addicting.

After Quinn's body had finally surrendered to Santana's completely, she curled up against her on her side, nestling under her neck. Quinn tucked her arms into her chest and threaded their legs together, so Santana could feel every pulse and the evening of her breathing as sleep took over in less than a minute.

Restless, Santana mirrored Quinn and rolled onto her side. A tentative hand nearly shook as it brushed blonde hair behind her ear. Here she was again, post-coital and buried under this weight, this hot coil around her heart dragging her under. She couldn't think about it, absolutely not. She bit her lip and tested the stability of her lungs, only to draw a quivering breath. No, nope, not again. Please, for the love of god. She tried suffocating herself in the tousled mess of Quinn's hair, blocking out the light and the sounds of her once simple life.

But it banged against the inside of her ribcage. It raced through her bloodstream. It hammered against her skull, louder, louder, until it shoved the words out of her mouth and into the irretrievable air of reality.

"I think I love you, Fabray," she croaked.

Quinn slept.

Santana imploded.


	7. Hanna Hunt

**_Notes: Yet another change, Rachel has a new boyfriend, considering it's past the canon timeline. He's only mentioned. _**

**_..._**

**July 2015**

**...**

Quinn made a few futile swipes at the sweat coating her brow. There was no escaping it. Sweat poured from her every pore in this mid-summer heat. The east coast humidity beast was in rare form this year, rearing it's head and belching out a palpable roar of sticky air. 99 degree city air that was already turgid with exhaust from the weekenders and the fumes from mountains of garbage bags baking in the afternoon sun.

Pleasant, truly.

Such was summer in New York City for those marooned on the island of Manhattan, no Hamptons beach chair to their name to escape to. As elusive heat was in the winter, it was equally as unshakable in the summer. The insufferable dichotomy made you wonder why you insisted on living in this godforsaken place.

Quinn decided to make the best of it, and along with Kurt and Santana, was navigating the throngs of shoppers in the Union Square Greenmarket. At the risk of exerting themselves more than necessary in the heat, they glided slowly from stand to stand amidst the nearly stagnant crowd.

"How about this for Berry?" Santana called from across a table of carrots in varying colors. She was holding up a short, stubby orange one. "It'll remind her of her boytoy."

"Actually, it's more like this," Kurt corrected as he presented a particularly plump and generous specimen from the pile. He shook it in front of Santana's face as Quinn scrunched up her nose.

"Ew, Kurt, how do you even know that?" Quinn cried. She plucked the carrot from Santana's hand disapprovingly, and piled a few more into the bag.

Kurt shrugged under Santana's skepticism, and said, "We only have one bathroom. One day he didn't lock it."

Quinn laughed into a groan at the excess of information as Santana peered at the carrot in Kurt's hand.

"Nice," she commented, quite earnestly. "Who knew Miss Glitter Puss could stuff a sausage like that." Kurt taunted Santana with the vegetable, wagging it in her face until Quinn confiscated that one as well. It was a little too much to learn about your friend at 10 AM on a Saturday.

"Your endless library of epithets is truly astounding," Quinn lauded. A good natured scowl crossed Santana's lips. Dodging Quinn's swatting hands, she snatched a smaller carrot out of the bag and snapped off a hunk with her teeth.

"When are you going to start using insults I understand?" she asked between crunching on the carrot. Quinn had been counting their haul when she looked up and dealt a self-satisfied smirk.

"Never," she teased, "I love having one up on you whenever I can."

Santana struggled with chewing the carrot chunks suddenly, perhaps inhaling them accidentally. Kurt patted her on the back whilst lecturing her on how she really should wash fresh produce before she puts it in her mouth. Quinn shot her a befuddled look. She'd been having minor freak outs all day. She knocked a pile of peaches over earlier, and almost tripped over a child. Whatever the hell was happening was going to get them kicked out, if you can even get kicked out of a public market.

She exchanged some dollar bills for her bag of veggies with the cashier, and met Kurt and Santana at the edge of the tent.

"Okay, so we're pretty much done," Quinn announced. She whipped out a scrap of paper with the shopping list scribbled on it. "We got everything for the salads, the pasta, and the salsa."

"Can we throw the rest of us a bone, here? Preferably one with meat on it?" Santana whined.

Quinn put the paper away and replied sharply, "No. I'm not making her something on her birthday that she can't eat. That's not very considerate." Santana rolled her eyes, and plodded along behind as the three of them squeezed through the congestion at the mouth of the market. Quinn's bag weighed heavy on her arm with plump tomatoes, lush spinach bushels, and onions that actually smelled _sweet_. The unbearable peak of summer be as it may, but the fruits, quite literally, of such weather were overflowing.

The last stop on their shopping expedition was a stand of jolly, green watermelons right at the edge of the park. Kurt buckled under the weight of Quinn's canvas bag as she handed it off to him in order to inspect the offerings. She lifted a few, testing their weight, and gave a few knocks, bent over to listen for echoes. While Kurt continued to find a center of balance, Quinn found a winner. She hoisted it up into her arms and spun on her heel to where Santana stood behind her.

"This one is going to be amazing," she proclaimed. Quinn held it out for Santana to take from her, which she did so begrudgingly. Quinn added, "I loooove watermelon on a hot day."

What happened next wasn't exactly clear, but Santana's arms dissolved into jello and the wellbeing of the watermelon was severely threatened. Flailing limbs scrambled to recover it before it cracked open like an egg on the sidewalk. When the scuffle ended, Quinn released a sigh of relief to find Santana's hands cradling the melon a mere inches from it's demise.

"_What _is going on with you, San?" Quinn finally asked, exasperated to say the least.

Santana seemed to be blinking away her shock at her own actions and she shook her head slightly before answering limply, "Don't get your granny panties in a bunch, it's heavy, so it slipped."

"Well, you've been slipping all day, into peach stands, down subway stairs…"

Santana stood up straight and collected the melon in her arms. She shook back her hair from her face, except for the few strands sticky with sweat.

"Just pay for the damn fruit, Q, before he thinks we're stealing it," she commanded. A thought danced in the back of Quinn's mind as an explanation for these recurring freakouts. However, it was something she probably shouldn't entertain, so she ignored it. She gave Santana another once over, then turned back to the disinterested watermelon man.

"Sorry about that," she offered sweetly. She put on the signature Quinn charm, apologetic, doe eyed. But the man remained apathetic and took the money from her outstretched hand.

"What do I care? You would have paid for it either way," he drawled. Quinn's smile loosened into a grimace as she retreated back to her friends. Figures. He would have probably sold two if the first had splattered everywhere. As jaded as it may sound, she had to admit that even the weekend watermelon men in this city were shrewd.

Kurt begged her to take her bag back before his spine collapsed and Santana begged for them to head back to the sanctuary of their air conditioned apartment before she melted.

"You drop that watermelon, Santana, and you're un-invited to the party," she threatened with a menacingly pointed finger. They wove through the subway crowd, strolling down the platform to a gap along the edge of the tracks.

Santana chuckled darkly, and warned her, "First of all, it's my house, not yours. Second, be careful Q, that's a lot more tempting than you think it sounds."

"Yeah, you'd love that, wouldn't you? But you're stuck with us for the rest of the evening," Quinn retorted. As if on queue, Santana stumbled and tried to play it off like she was merely shifting her weight. Quinn licked her lips (once is an incident, twice is a coincidence, thrice is a…) and promptly shook her head.

"Don't start, Fabray," she almost begged.

"You need to calm down, San," Quinn started, "You're so tense you're beginning to act like, well, me."

"I'm fine, christ, will you…"

Quinn held Santana's face between her palms, pressing them together and forcing them to tilt up at her.

"Just relax, okay? Did I say something?" Quinn tried, with a patient smile on her face. Santana's scanned her, so meticulously, she blushed, feeling a tad self-conscious. Words were bubbling in her friend's throat, behind her eyes, but all that came out was a garbled negation of her inquiry, followed by a thick swallow.

The train whooshed to a squeaky stop behind them, dragging Santana's gaze away from Quinn's, along with loose tendrils of her hair. Kurt called for them to haul ass as the crowd congregated at the doors.

Quinn's hands burned when she ripped them from Santana. As they joined the other sardines piling in, she realized it was the heat from Santana's cheeks that had scorched them.

Whatever had transpired in that curiously loaded moment dissipated as the trio was divided amongst the commuters, and had completely vanished when they shoved forth out of the clogged train car at their stop.

When they emerged out of the subway tunnel and into the furnace that was Williamsburg, Santana happily waddled along with the watermelon secure in her arms with Quinn and Kurt in step behind her. The apartment was empty, just as they'd hoped, and upon setting down their cargo, they got right to work.

Quinn had sectioned out all of the chopping, boiling, and mixing that needed to be done, and delegated them all out accordingly. Soon, the room bubbled and thwacked with all three sets of hands toiling away. Santana and Quinn rubbed shoulders at the counter; Santana dicing tomatoes and Quinn julienning basil leaves.

Kurt started to hum, and no sooner had a tune slowly slipped from his lips, before Santana shut that down real quick.

"No, Hummel, no way. If this is going to turn into musical Ratatouille, it's going to be to a Kendrick Lamar soundtrack," she demanded. She poked him with her drenched fingers and he recoiled wildly at the stains on his shirt. Santana turned to Quinn, who was a pro at ignoring her pre-school antics.

"Hey, Q, grab my speaker from my room, will ya?" she asked. She wiggled her salsa fingers in the air as evidence of her incapacity.

"If I can find it," Quinn gibed. Santana flicked some tomato juice at her as she rounded the corner of the counter.

Santana's room wasn't exactly a mess, it was just filled with stuff. Stuff in the true sense of the word; various unnecessary, unrelated objects and articles that inhabited every inch of space. Hoarder is a strong word. You could see the floor, walk through it fairly well, but with every movement, Santana's life brushed up against your arm or your ankle. It consumed you, wrapped it's arms around you, whether you liked it or not. Quinn hadn't given much thought to her preference. Their lives had been intertwined for so long, and she had spent so much time in Santana's domains, the material objects bearing Santana's ownership had become a blended backdrop in her own life. As much Santana's as they were hers.

Conveniently, her portable speaker was resting atop a stack of magazines, within reach, and inconveniently, the ipod was not in the dock. Quinn began peeling back the layers of Santana's room, discarded shirt by discarded shirt. She was deconstructing the stack of magazines and found her efforts halted by a cluster of business cards. They had been wedged under a rag mag screaming "40 and Falling Apart!" about some blond celebrity.

She shuffled through them in her hand, reading off the names of agents. Music agents. At least 4 of them. Curiously, Santana had never mentioned these to her.

The mature, adult Quinn told her to put them back, that it was none of her business what Santana did or didn't do with her life. Still, she clutched the cardstock in her hand, her heart clenching with betrayal, which was _so_ out of line. What should she care? Santana didn't owe her anything. They were friends, maybe, if you squinted, but they were more physical friends than emotional friends. Well, the physical part had evolved from violence to something a little more enjoyable, but that didn't mean anything. No, not really. But maybe, she mused, she deserved to have it mean something, enough of a something that Santana would tell her about contacting an agent.

She bit down on her lip. Perhaps she wasn't as unlike Judy Fabray as she had previously thought; nosey, entitled to others personal affairs. But she meant well, so that had to count for something. This concern building inside of her was genuine.

Quinn cared. The root of her affection aside, she cared. Perhaps she shouldn't because some days she wasn't sure if Santana gave a rat's ass about her. Then other days, like the day she took her up to Columbia... Quinn's eyes glazed over as she sank into the memory, and she wrapped her pale fingers around her cross.

At Santana's sudden call of her name, she dropped the cards as if they were a loaded gun. Hastening to sweep them back under the magazines, she did her best to make the area appear untouched by her red stained fingertips. She doubled back once she had reached the door to grab the speaker, and tried not to trip on the way out.

**...**

As usual, for any event with Quinn at the helm, the festivities went off without a hitch. It was a subdued affair, by Rachel Berry's standards. Absent were the kick lines and lone spotlight stage ballads, although given the percentage of broadway in attendance, the belting of "Happy Birthday" was quite a production. By the time the cake had been cut and the salsa ran dry, Santana felt relatively at ease among the twinkle toes of Midtown.

Through the grime of the window, from the fire escape she watched Rachel, buoyant amidst her theater camaraderie, laughing and carrying on. It was certainly worth a second look. They way they all so easily blended together, bursting and bouncing, how they hugged deeply and committed to domestic games the same fervor they deliver on stage. There was something to be said about that kind of bottomless happiness, if Santana was the type of person to say such things. Which she was not.

Her train of thought was interrupted by the crack of a ziplock bag being pulled open. She turned her attention to the joint being held out to her by the standard grade Brooklyn hipster, the stereotype almost painful to see played out so down to the t. She plucked the roach between her fingers and replaced it with her wad of waitress bills. Turning away from the faint river breeze, she lit her purchase, filling the immediate airspace with an earthy pungence.

No sooner had the boy climbed back through the window, had Quinn Fabray emerged into the pool of yellow light illuminating the rusted metal below her feet. Her face shifted into disapproval almost immediately, and Santana waited until she had strolled across the short distance between them to release the smoke from her straining lungs.

"New friend?" Quinn opened with.

"Business associate," Santana replied cooly. Quinn snorted. Santana pulled something from her back pocket and held it out to her. "Hey, don't laugh. He left me his card."

Quinn took the card and scrutinized it quite closely before deadpanning, "Horticultural entrepreneur. He's clearly going places."

Santana hummed, and added, "You should try his product." She held out the joint to Quinn, who had scrunched up her nose predictably. Santana retracted her offer, and took the puff herself. The hit trapped in her throat, she croaked, "Best part is he's Ethan's best buddy."

"Rachel's boyfriend, Ethan? Really?" Quinn exclaimed.

Santana nodded, and released the smoke in curls from her flared lips.

"Little virgin Berry is dabbling in sin," she stated. Quinn nodded, but not really at her words. She was staring off at what little view they had. The top few floors of the neighboring walkups, down a street that led somewhere unintersting. The Manhattan skyline poked through the cracks of a few buildings, over the tops of the low ones. The sky was curiously clear, so much that the skyline had to work a little bit at the risk of being second best to the stars adrift overhead.

For the first time that night, Santana noticed that Quinn looked done up. Her hair was swept back on one side, she had a lip on maybe, in this light it was hard to tell. But all in all, nice. She felt a prick of desire to expand on her vocabulary, if only to think of a more eloquent compliment.

"You probably shouldn't smoke that out in the open in a family neighborhood, you know," Quinn spoke up. Santana fished out her lighter for another hit. She leaned into the corner of the railing and brick wall, appearing to try to physically dodge the warning. Quinn continued anyway, "You could get fined for smoking in public. I think it's $250 now."

Santana willed the drug to quell her annoyance, but it did nothing for snark.

"Thank you, officer Quinn, for providing us with the invaluable fruits of your forty-five grand a year NYU education," she said, facetious as the moon is round. This time, she pointedly blew the smoke in Quinn's general direction. "If I give you a quickie in the bathroom will you promise not to arrest me?"

It was a bitchy come on, and the minute it left her mouth, she knew Quinn wouldn't bite. The blonde blinked away the smoke and shook her head, a scoff on the tip of her tongue.

"I'm not a cop, Santana," she retorted, spitting the syllables of Santana's name that way that she does when she's frustrated with her. "I'm a lawyer, or I will be anyway."

Santana eyed her warily, and muttered, blunt in the corner of her mouth, "Eh, still too close for comfort." She saw the beginnings of a smile on Quinn's lips and considered the round of hostility over. It was messing with the high that this low-rent weed was pitifully attempting to give her. "Why do you always have to bring in the fun police? You were almost cool for a second, Q. _Almost_."

"Oh?" Quinn chuckled, "Well cool is overrated."

Santana gagged and clutched her chest, screwing her face up in agony.

"Ugh, god, Q, _please._ You've been drinking way too much of the Kool Aid in there," Santana groaned. "Who would have ever guessed, Quinn Fabray, champion of the geek parade? Today is a cold day in hell."

A tight smile dammed the laughter from leaving Quinn's mouth, and she shifted on her feet, weighing the comment on each of her shoulders.

"I don't know about that," she considered, "but I won't be reduced to just cheer royalty at McKinley High in Lima, Ohio."

"Mmm, yes, because that's a terrible legacy, definitely not one kids dream about in every teen movie," Santana asserted, flippantly.

"That may be so, but I don't know. Maybe I decided I want more than that."

Quinn's last few words found her staring at Santana in a way the brunette wasn't expecting. The joint pressed against her lips and dropped a few ashes through the metal slots below. It was the same suspension they kept falling into, the breaths between words and actions that somehow weighed heavier than either of the two. She could have sworn Quinn's eyes were trying to brand her with some secret, cryptic message, until they flicked down to her lips. It was most certainly not the joint Quinn wanted.

"Well, when you finally figure out what that is, don't forget to alert the press," Santana murmured. It wasn't nearly as cutting as she wanted it to be, but it did quietly untangle the tension.

Santana carried on with her lighter, letting the smoke singe the back of her throat as Quinn stared through her. The effects of the cannabis were settling in comfortably around her cognizance. Quinn's presence felt warm next to her. Full, like she could sink into her…

"Anyway, speaking of business cards," Quinn started. She was still fiddling with the weed dealer's card in her hand, and must have been holding it this whole time. "I found a few on your desk, from agents?"

Ah, fuck. Santana actually got a bad taste in her mouth over the impending conversation. A scowl made it's way from her mouth to Quinn's rolling eyes and Santana leaned forward onto the railing, the joint dangling over the edge in her lazy fingers. She rolled the crinkling wrapper around. Some unlit leaves probably fell out onto the street below, and she lamented the loss knowing she was about to need all she could get.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Not really."

Quinn joined her on the railing, pushing her face into Santana's peripheral.

"I asked you why you haven't called any of them," Quinn pressed. The tone was coming out, the concerned tone, the one that made her want to shoot herself the face. Shaking her head, Santana groped the back of her jean shorts for her lighter. Quinn beat her to it, slipping it from her pocket and holding it hostage in her indignant fist. Santana turned on her.

"You know what, let's rewind for a second. Why were you snooping in my shit, Quinn? And how do you know I haven't called them? Maybe I did!" she barked. So what if she threw up her defenses at the first sign of fire? She was stubborn and trigger happy, but her problems were hers alone.

"I know you," Quinn stated. Her shoulders were square and her brow was set. She was resolute against a fight she clearly had prepared for, which was unfair and a little scary. "I know how you think and you're being an idiot."

Santana waved a hand in the air dismissively, and snapped tartly, "Okay, whatever, you may know me, Quinn, but you don't have the right to go through my shit and dictate my life."

"Oh, stop with the histrionics, San, I didn't go looking for them, I just found them. And anyway, that's rich, coming from the biggest snooper in the tri-state area," Quinn volleyed.

"Nice try but I don't do that anymore," she countered, "I found some freaky shit in Kurt's room that scarred my soul so deeply, I don't ever want to know anyone's personal business ever again. The gay male asshole is a scary place"

Quinn's mouth snapped shut in the aftershock of Santana's revelation, and she burst like a balloon into wild laughter. Her hand flew to her mouth to blockade the chortles tumbling out, quite shocked herself at her outburst. Just like that, their pendulum of a friendship swung from dispute to amusement, at the hand of someone else's humiliation, but that's how it's always been. Santana let her own grin sweep across her face, loosening her set jaw. The prickly standoff had been shattered by their giggles anyway.

Santana's insides bubbled watching Quinn laugh. She imagined it was akin to staring into the face of the sun without going blind. She felt lightheaded and her fingers itched to touch her, absorb the tactile waves of mirth radiating from her. Their hands weren't far apart. If her fingers walked along the railing, she'd run into Quinn after a few strides. As if she read her mind, pale hands inched forward and looked to be dancing with the same idea.

Looking up gave her a different Quinn than the stern ghost of Judy Fabray she had been face to face with moments ago. Her eyes rippled, the apples of her cheeks were painted pink. Santana was staring, shamelessly, again. Quinn cleared her throat, but she didn't tear her gaze away.

"In all seriousness, though," Quinn began again. Santana held her tongue between her teeth. "You should call one of them, San. Just to see what happens."

"Quinn…" she hears herself protest. Out of habit, at this point. She looks down and finds Quinn's hand placed lightly atop her own.

"Just try it, okay? I love… your voice," Quinn's melodic whispers stuttered on the word, and Santana's eyes jumped up to watch, sure she'd been mistaken. Her own calm ruptured at the utterance and there, in the unspoken air filling the spaces between them, Santana could have sworn she saw an acknowledgement of that night, an echo of her own words thrown into the vacant air, fogged in sleep. She couldn't know. She couldn't have heard her say it. There's _no _way. Santana's heart had been stalling all day every time she had said that damn word, which was excessive recently, wasn't it? No, she's deluding herself.

"...It's just such a waste to keep it cooped up in that restaurant every night."

It took Santana a beat to realize Quinn was still talking to her. She gave a deep, slow cooked sigh and found the courage to spread Quinn's fingers and push her own through the gaps.

"I know what will happen," she spoke, "They'll meet with me, like my voice but tell me I don't really have what it takes. I'll end up at the bottom of the barrel, only booked for weddings and national anthems at minor league baseball games. And that would be the best case scenario."

Quinn didn't appear convinced, but she merely chewed her lip, reticent as Santana gathered her thoughts.

"I appreciate the concern Quinn, even though I don't, really," she joked. It was a sad joke, and a light squeeze of her hand elicited a sad smile from Quinn. "But, I don't go around telling you what law schools to apply to, do I?"

She ended it there, letting the logic settle in Quinn's brain, hopefully making a dent where the stream of denial slid right off like oil on water. In a deserted chamber of her heart, Santana felt the seeds of regret burrowing and making themselves at home. Everyone else in her family was fiercely unafraid, diving into action and sweeping the mess up afterwards. Despite her parent's insistence, this strain of bravery seemed to have skipped her. Or maybe it had been overridden by an unfortunate atavism in the line of Lopez's in the form of cowardice, or self-destruction, like the kind that riddled Quinn. The truth was that her and Quinn shared more traits than either of them did with their respective families. They say the people you hate the most are the ones in whom you see the worst parts of yourself.

At an almost imperceptibly slow velocity, Quinn nodded, with lips pursed in a line and downcast eyes, but she nodded. There was nothing more to be said on the matter. They stood on the fire escape, oscillating on the edge of silence.

An indiscernible noise kicked up from inside, popping their bubble

"I'm going to head back," Quinn informed her. She began her retreat, and her fingers slipped too easily out of Santana's.

She felt a _thank you_ might be swirling in the air somewhere above them. It had been a bit invasive, a breach of trust to some degree, but it was a caring gesture on Quinn's part. Credit where credit is due, all that stuff. Her lighter was placed in her palm, and Quinn took the opportunity to brush her fingers along the perimeter of it, leaving singed nerves in her wake.

"Enjoy your purchase," she said with a percentage of a smile. Then she was nothing more than a flutter of a skirt through an open window.

Despite the cramped apartment, Santana didn't see much of Quinn for the duration of the party. Whether she was avoiding her or honestly busy playing hostess, Santana wasn't sure. Their argument had ended on a neutral note, and that was more than she could have asked for, so she paid it no mind.

It wasn't until she was standing under the spray of the showerhead later that night, washing the day's labor away, that she felt hands wrap around her waist from behind. She smiled as Quinn dropped kisses on her shoulders, and forged a path up to her ear.

"I trust you, you know," she said over the hissing of the shower.

Those were loaded words, Santana was no idiot. She let them echo off the tiled walls as Quinn drew her naked body up against Santana's back. She was well aware what Quinn meant, what her stupid coded statements implied.

Quinn's hands had taken to traversing her stomach, dipping down towards her thighs in lingering swoops. It was distracting to say the least. Santana's head fell back against her shoulder, and lips wasted no time latching onto her moistened skin.

"Maybe not your judgement," Quinn continued in a jovial tone, and Santana could feel the smirk against her skin, "or your style advice unless I'm trying to hook, but I trust you won't hurt me."

They were pressed so close together that not a single stream of water was able to trickle down between their bodies. Santana's hand groped behind her for the slick curve of Quinn's ass. She found herself practically draped backwards at the whim of Quinn's sturdy frame, succumbing to her own moans drawn out by nipping teeth and slowly circulating hips. Her thighs drifted apart for Quinn's fingertips, poised and ready with her arm notched in the dip of Santana's hipbone.

Quinn pecked just below her ear, and swiftly shoved Santana out from under the shower and up against the wall. A gentle shove, but forceful, trapping her between the wall and Quinn's body that was now directly under the spray.

Santana tensed up at the sudden shift in power, and Quinn's halted movements indicated she felt her discomfort.

"I just thought you should know," she concluded.

The underbelly of Quinn's motives were hardly masked. It was less of a statement and more of an accusation; _why don't you trust me?_ For she stopped her seduction attempt but remained in place, droplets of water landing on Santana's shoulder from her drenched locks. She was almost begging for it, for Santana to push her away and resume the status-quo, taking control once again like she always did.

Santana's insides squirmed, because she hadn't considered whether she trusted her or not. She didn't know if she did, if she trusted anyone. It was such a vast expanse of emotional terrain she had gazed out upon at one time or another, but always chose to ignore, instead bypass it via the smooth, drifting river bends of casual, antagonistic relationships. How could she begin to explain that, especially with everything else that was swirling around in her head?

Quinn Fabray was frequently rendering her ineffable these days.

Well, she wasn't going to attempt to, not now with Quinn's hand between her legs, her skin goose-pimpling against the cool ceramic walls. Despite Quinn's calculated efforts, it was hardly the time.

"I know," she offered. It sounded empty, even to her. Words always failed her. She swallowed the lump in her throat and moved her hand atop Quinn's. deeper between her thighs she guided it, pulling Quinn forward and flush against her back once again. Poorly measured breathing filled her ear as she turned her head. As her cheek made contact with the bridge of Quinn's nose, she leaned into it, into her.

"If you're going to start this, Q," she uttered, "you better fucking see it through."

It was Quinn's turn to hesitate, fingers rigid in Santana's grasp. Eyelashes fluttered against the brunette's cheek, and she sensed Quinn was studying her. But the pause soon passed, and Quinn nodded as she moved her palm the final inch forward to make contact with her destination. Santana inhaled the shower steam into her lungs audibly. Quinn pushed her body closer to absorb every twitch and every arch she caused with her fast fingers.

"Don't stop," Santana warned her.

"Okay," Quinn concurred.

Santana could speak in code too.


	8. Hudson

**_..._**

**August 2015**

**...**

August is a particularly retched month in New York. Yes, Quinn had deemed July as abysmal for the tri-state inhabitants, but August is horrendous. It's not that this was her first August in the city, it's just that everyone always forgets about this wasteland of a month, perhaps voluntarily. The third and final round of summer was universally akin with lazy days by the pool, lingering sunsets, crackling bonfires, endless rounds of bottles dripping with frost, fresh from the freezer. Someone had a guitar, dinners grilled, giggling, toothless mouths rimmed with red dye number 4, and life was _good, man_.

No, not here. The heat that moved in during early July had stretched its legs out and lounged comfortably in the arms of Manhattan riverbanks. Streets became an incubus for the molten tar and exhaust, belched from cars crammed in between the curbs. The heat was visible, rising like radioactive waves off the blinding windshields. Uptown, behemoth shopping avenues blasted customers with thousands of dollars worth of arctic horsepower. Downtown, the little brunch cafe's in the village coaxed their wall mounted A/C units through endless afternoons, and they valiantly chugged along in attempts to chase the heat away. Tourists migrated en masse into the city for last hoorah field trips before the summer's end, clogging the arteries of New York's footpaths. It was a cycle of brow wiping, paper fanning, squinting lethargy.

And then like clockwork, Labor Day chased everyone out like hordes of rats dogged by an oncoming train. They scurried off to sandy shores or shady backyards where they sucked the last tepid drops of summer dry, along with a few gin ricky's or Red Stripes, depending on which fork they settled on. These soldiers of the city's last regiment deserted the sad, sorry stack of sheetrock to fend for itself. By the final weekend in August, Manhattan felt still, desolate, post-apocalyptic.

It's no question, then, why Quinn chose this weekend to venture uptown, despite it's tourist magnet infamy, even on the most desolate of days in NYC. Still, this weekend was as close to having the city to herself as she would get. To evade the heat, she settled on dragging Santana up the steps of the Met, and into it's cavernous lobby. Her companion had finally acquiesced with several relenting emojis at the promise of free entertainment and air conditioning.

Well, almost free. Santana smugly forked over her wrinkled dollar at the suggested donation of the ticket booth woman. Typical. Quinn slid a fiver across the counter, with an apologetic smile. Stickers peeled and stuck to their shirts, they strolled aimlessly through the labyrinth of Greek sculptures. Santana scoffed in disgust at children running around the bubbling indoor fountain and middle-aged man back sweat. As they darted through an archway into the Africa, Oceania, and Americas wing, the din of the crowds disappeared behind them, as if they had crossed a threshold into another dimension.

Quinn sighed and looked to Santana who seemed to be equally as relieved at the solitude.

"Better?" she asked.

"Much," Santana confirmed. The squeak of Quinn's rubber soles on the slick floors echoed in the vacant air as she stepped forward towards a case of artifacts. She had probably read the placards a hundred times. Spinning on her heel, she finds Santana gazing upwards at the assemblage of wooden panels lining the ceiling above them. It coaxes a grin onto her cheeks.

"What are those?" she asks Quinn, still scanning the work.

"They're paintings from the Kwoma people on sago palm spathes," Quinn recites. Santana remained transfixed, her mouth hanging open. "They usually go inside ceremonial houses when a new one is built. Or they did, anyway."

"Huh," Santana breathed. Quinn stood next to her and bent her own head back to take in the view.

"See," she continued, pointing at a crocodile tile, "Each family in the village contributes a painting to hang in the ceremonial house. The image on it represents their family, usually an animal or a leaf pattern or something. Kind of like a coat of arms."

"Huh."

Santana didn't say anything more, so they remained, necks strained beneath nearly the entire ancestral lineage of the Kwoma people. Quinn kept quiet herself, biting back the urge to word vomit her art history trivia. It was no easy feat, and it involved some actual biting of her lip to silence herself.

If Santana had anything to say as they progressed through the wing, she kept it to herself. The two orbited each other, drifting from case to case, a curious expression fixed on Santana's features. Quinn couldn't help but try to catch her eye and pry some of those thoughts from her Fort Knox of a brain.

Taking the taciturn drifting as a sign of autonomy, Quinn left Santana at the bis poles to stand before a bamboo body mask. It always terrified her a little, but thrilled her just the same. Something about it felt whimsical, as if it could spring to life at any moment, launching into a ceremonial dance around it's own podium.

Santana caught her laughing to herself as she approached. She smiled at the blonde, but still kept quiet still. Her tight lipped gaze was starting to creep Quinn out. Sure, the wing made her feel tranquil, but it practically sedated Santana.

"It's my favorite part of the museum, you know," she offered, gently slicing through the silence. Santana stood next to her, squaring up against the body mask. She tilted her head to the side, and then turned to Quinn, eyes narrowed inquisitively.

"Really?" she questioned.

Quinn nodded slowly, a bit unsure now herself. Santana volleyed between the body mask and Quinn once again, before pursing her lips.

"Huh."

"Is that all you're going to say for the rest of the day?" Quinn sighed. She trailed behind Santana, who had advanced to the next portion of the hall.

"What is there to say, Quinnie? I never would expect to find _you_ here, of all places," she elaborated, her hand waving to the artifacts around them. Her booted heels snapped against the floor with her exaggerated steps towards a particularly lengthy canoe. Santana never let the weather dictate her style. It was almost admirable how dedicated she was to it. Quinn recalled when once upon a time, she used to share in that commitment to her own visage. "The Renaissance wing maybe, or scribbling in your diary at the edge of the Temple of Dendur."

Quinn plodded up beside her and replied coyly, "Well, a girl has to maintain a little bit of mystery, doesn't she?"

Santana snorted, and grumbled, "And then you go and say shit like that." Quinn rammed her shoulder into her companion's, launching them both into a good natured bout of laughter. Quinn rolled her eyes, and shook her head.

"Anyway, besides the fact that I do like the art," she carried on, "It's almost always deserted, so I can be alone with the masks and my thoughts."

Santana nodded in understanding, sticking out her chin as she surveyed the carvings of the boat.

"So why bring me?" Santana challenged. Quinn took a breath to answer, but found herself unable to. It was a viable question, and the uncertainty poked Quinn in unpleasant places. There hadn't been much thought behind it, it just sort of happened. She called her up, the museum came to mind, and her feet brought them here. It might have something to do with the fact that with Santana, she felt as free as she did in the privacy of her solitude. Her presence was a natural as Quinn's own limbs. The subject of her thoughts was looking at her intently now, not making it easier to come up with a response.

At Quinn's muteness, a smug grin crept across Santana's mouth, but she didn't press the matter any further. The glass panels scattered the afternoon light around the room in in soft sherbet hues. The shades were drawn to let just enough daylight in, and an old lady shuffled out of one of the adjacent galleries and into another.

The room was suddenly too quiet, too full of words Quinn should probably have said. They were piling up around her but she couldn't grasp a single one, and Santana looked so blissfully unaware. Or did she know? Did she throw that question out casually just to poke the tender spots of Quinn's psyche? Whatever the case, although it was most likely the latter, Quinn decided to brush it off, so she abruptly pulled Santana's arm through an archway.

A sparse collection of wooden totems and and masks gave way to a low ceiling room, painted a drab beige so as to not take away from the glittering gold treasure on display. Santana's expression lit up with bright eyes and a toothy grin.

"Ah, my people," she boasted with arms outstretched. She strolled over to the nearest case to admire the gold trinkets within.

Quinn snorted but let her have it. Just as she had hoped, the gold artifacts ignited Santana's usual chatter, a pleasant static Quinn could slather over her addled mind. Santana took her time through the gallery, ogling each of the pendants and cuffs and solid gold figurines. She even went so far as to point out her favorites, advising Quinn to note them for future gift ideas. She humored her, nodding and carrying on.

It was at least a good 30 minutes before Quinn was able to drag her out of the hall of gold. They meandered through a hallway or two that spit them out into the sunny Arms and Armory exhibit. Santana squinted at the onslaught of daylight and let Quinn circle them around the horse-mounted knights in the center of the room.

Remarkably, Santana's attention didn't falter as Quinn yammered on about the armor styles and coats of arms. She made sure to check for the glazed over eyes and loose hanging jaw, tell tale signs of Santana's disinterest. But no, she stood beside her and nodded appropriately when Quinn truncated a thought. She smiled at her lame history jokes. The only thing suspect was the way Quinn caught her looking at her mid-ramble; the same way Quinn looked at Starry Night or The Wedding at Cana. One blink, and it was gone. Sarcastic, smirking Santana was back in place.

Through the skylights, Quinn could see the sun drooping from it's midday perch. Santana had suffered enough, she reckoned, so she guided them towards the exit. She became acutely aware of how Santana's arm was now looped through the crook of her elbow. It had become so natural for them to sustain a physical connection outside their escapades. Usually something benign, like this, or finding herself leaning against Santana's shoulder, tossing her calves into Santana's lap. Quinn had never really given much mind to it before. Something familiar tickled her gut from a far away place, something she had been actively avoiding.

Words, Quinn needed an avalanche of them to bury this.

"How's Rachel doing these days?" Quinn blurted out. She winced at her poor choice of subject matter. They passed by the dim cases of weapons, maces and pistols, still menacing after dormant centuries behind glass.

Santana shrugged unconvincingly and grunted, "Eh, she's got a twinkle toes twat on her tail for the lead in some kid's NYADA thesis project."

Quinn raised her brow in suspicion, inquiring, "You sound pretty bothered by that, someone threatening her."

"Yeah well," Santana sighed, "She'll be moping around for weeks if she doesn't get it. So, it's really in all of our best interests that she does." Quinn nodded, peering at her best friend out of the corner of her eye. She was frowning, like she was also trying to keep an unwelcome notion at bay.

"Knowing Rachel, nobody will be able to compete," Quinn assured her.

"Yeah," she sighed, distracted. She extended her finger to point to a long shotgun they were passing. "I might be back for that one though. I'll go Tara Lipinski on her ass."

"As your legal counselor, I advise you find another method of dealing with your anger," Quinn played along. Wrapped up in their conversations, Quinn's feet charted the course yet again. Those tricky rubber soles carried them down the shady paths of Central Park and through a grove of oak trees to deposit them at one end of the boat pond. The glossy water glistened in the glaring sun, disturbed only by gentle ripples as the motorized boats drifted from one bank to the other. Dodging a pint sized scooter brigade, the two laid claim to a bench mostly shielded from the sun.

The afternoon carried on lazily, like nothing in Quinn and Santana's world had changed since that fateful cheer tryout day. Sure, the stage had changed from linoleum floors and florescent lights to shady park benches beneath the watchful gaze of the buildings peering over treelines.

And yet, the show went on, the lines the same, the queues the same. Santana griped about how despite how they live in a mostly concrete jungle, Quinn always ends up dragging her to some nature-filled park. Quinn claimed she's doing her a favor. They bickered, and they made snide jokes about passerby's. She nudged her shoulder and she shared her lemonade. If she closed her eyes, Quinn could easily place them on the bleachers or in the back of the glee club.

Is it possible to move forward and backwards at the same time? Perhaps it was the hazy humidity, but on that bench, Quinn felt the absence of time. Their peals of laughter and raspy whispers cocooned them. Each lingering graze, heavy glance, was only theirs, impervious to the swells of the cities population. Her lungs felt fuzzy and her fingers combed her hair back, twirled it, tucked it, and tugged at it; the tactility of her ministrations the only thing grounding her. Maybe, instead, something could transcend time all together.

Hours later, drunk on a heat stroke on a 6 train so densely packed she was shocked the train moved at all, she decided to leave the puzzle alone. Although the realization struck her that she had found herself on a carousel of repeating afternoons with a certain brunette. Movie nights, fucking, parks, lazy couch lounging, fucking, museums, concerts, coffee, an adventurous round of groping. No matter where her leisurely hours took her, Santana was there. She has always been there, by her own design or that of fate, however the former was increasingly becoming the case.

Come to think of it, it was strangely akin to a relationship of sorts, the first functional one she'd ever had. She can at least admit that to herself these days. That notion alone made her chuckle darkly; in spite of herself or out of pity for herself, again, the jury was out. It alerted Santana though, whose arm she had draped herself around in lieu of a subway pole.

"What's tickling your fancy, Lucy Q," she mumbled. Quinn shook a stray side-bang out of her face and turned it as best as she could in the crowd to meet Santana's line of sight. She almost left it at that, a shrug, a loose smile on her lips.

"Kurt and Rachel are out east right?" she piped up. Santana nodded with an arched brow. "Good. Lets go back to your place."

The train rocked their pressed bodies with the curves and bends of the track. She caught the side of Santana's mouth curling upwards, no doubt pleased with the offer on the table. Quinn rested her head on Santana's shoulder, nose pressed to the salty cinnamon skin she'd grown accustomed to. Around and around they go.

**...**

There was a crack in the ceiling of Santana's apartment, in the kitchen. She saw it now, splayed on the floor, the tiles cool against her shoulder blades. At first she had thought there were two, until her liquored vision settled to reveal it was but one, solitary, painted over crack.

"There's a crack in the ceiling, Q" she stated.

"Mmm," came the disinterested reply. Quinn was currently preoccupied, leaving hickies on her neck. Laid atop of her torso, legs straddling her waist, Quinn was leeching the life from her neck, one nip at a time, to the muffled soundtrack of some top 40 song.

Santana looked to her left. She reached into her cup, drained of all liquid, to extract a strawberry slice and pop it in her mouth. Her sinking teeth pushed liquor out of the saturated berry, pleasantly tart like a sour patch kid.

It wasn't her idea to get plastered so early in the afternoon, for once, although she was hardly opposed. Her fuzzy memory wasn't the most reliable, but she recalled how a casual stop at the corner liquor store for some two buck chuck turned into Quinn, ever the one for a project, clutching a bottle of Pimm's, and running Rachel's fruit supply dry. It had to marinate, or steep, or whatever the culinary term was, so to pass the time, they polished off half the wine before one of them poured the first glass of their concoction. By then, they were well over the DUI limit, and amber liquid sloshed onto shirts and shorts.

Naturally, those stained clothes had to go, which explained the exposed skin. The pulse of the music blaring across the vacant apartment is what drew Quinn to Santana's lacy, swaying hips. A bridge and a chorus and a seductive lip bite was all it took for Santana to slam Quinn against a wall, grinding against her while pale hands clutched the back of her neck. Scandalous panting, a single hand slipped between them, a leg hiked over a hip, the angles she knew all too well brought Quinn to pieces against the plaster and into a giggling heap on the kitchen floor.

And there they were, the pitcher long since drained, Quinn's sloppy kisses, Santana bursting berries in her mouth like gushers.

"Quinn, you're drooling on me, gross," Santana grumbled, nudging at her shoulder. Quinn lapped at the red blotch and managed to push herself up into a somewhat slouch against the cabinets.

"I don't drool," Quinn insisted.

Santana used her elbows to prop herself up, before arguing, "Yes you do. You're a sloppy drunk, Quinn Fabray."

Quinn jutted her chin upwards and swung her head away from Santana in a defiant pout. It was so uncharacteristic of Quinn, she almost snorted. Her wobbly arms got her upright, and she bashed her shoulder into the wood, hardly graceful.

"Aw, nooo," Santana laughed, a rich chuckle shaking her shoulders, "C'mere, don't be mad." She reached out for Quinn's jaw, and attempted to pull it back around. Quinn's eyed her playfully, still pouting, by the time Santana got them face to face. "You're a cute drunk, okay?" Santana cooed, laying a series of pecks along thin line of Quinn's pressed lips. "I'm kidding, Q."

She tried running her stained thumb along Quinn's lips to draw them out. The shift was immediate, her jaw slackened and released those pink lips, parting with blown out pupils bearing the promise of something sinful. Quinn's neck slacked forward, bumping their noses gently before crashing their lips together. Quinn was a sloppy drunk and a sloppy drunk kisser, there was no denying that.

Santana would never admit it, but it got her hot and bothered to see Quinn so unwound, her inhibitions flung across the room. The way she hung off Santana's body, all wanton and breathy. She opened her mouth to Quinn's persistent tongue, fisting matted blonde hair.

When they pulled apart, Quinn looked absolutely delicious. Santana licked her lips carnivorously. A soft sigh hit her cheek, and she realized Quinn was not reciprocating her hedonistic desire currently. Her eyes had been diluted by an emotion of some sort, softened. These sorts of interactions is where Santana bows out. This was dangerous, a no fly zone for Lopez Airlines. Quinn's hand rose to rest on Santana's cheek, with a thumb stroke for good measure. As much as she itched to stand up, change the song, change the subject, Santana was locked in place.

From her drowsy haze, Quinn spoke, just above a whisper, "I love you, too."

This was no playful "shut up, I love you", or a post-gift "oh my god, I love you", or even the tearful, graduation goodbye "I love you" with some absurd daily Skype demand attached. This was a textbook, heartfelt, _moment_ sort of "I love you."

Santana swallowed thickly as the hushed words processed. She faintly registered an Adele song coming up on shuffle, the piano chords trickling through the apartment, but the ironic timing was not lost on her.

"Too?" she ventured to clarify. Quinn's crooked smile spread into a dopey version of her all-knowing grin. She had known this whole time. She had been awake after all, and Santana had been careless. _Fuck, shit, fuck_.

"I'm sorry it took so long for me to say it," Quinn croaked. Santana shook her head before she could finish her sentence, closing her eyes and basking in this. The warmth of Quinn's sticky palm on her cheek, the faint puffs of breath grazing her lips from Quinn so close. Those words, those three stupid words that leave ruins in their wake, and yet she was here with them hanging in the air around her, feeling them nuzzle her gut and steal her breath.

"I know," she offered in return, because she felt like she should say something, but she couldn't say _that_ something. She looked around her to find something amiss, that one little out of place sign that she was actually dreaming. It was just her and Quinn, the golden sky out the window, the remnants of their Labor Day celebrations scattered across the floor. Everything was as it was supposed to be.

"I needed to say it, though," Quinn interjected her thoughts. "Because it's true 'n I don't know what to do about it."

Santana snickered at her slurred words. She wrapped her fingers around the hand on her cheek and relocated it to her lap.

"Q, you don't have to do anything, you just…"

"No, you don't understand."

This interruption was more urgent. Her brow had hardened. Santana's smile was wiped from her face, but before she could gently pry, Quinn continued.

"_Or do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God?_" she recited. That came out clear as a bell, no slurs or stutters. Santana's muscles tensed at those ominous words, and Quinn's resolute delivery.

"Quinn, what…" she trailed off.

"Corinthians, 6:9," Quinn clarified. It took Santana's Mexican Catholic heritage seconds to realize what she said. Quinn was so serious, so troubled, and over something like this, that it was almost laughable. In fact she did laugh, a knee jerk reaction. It ended up coming out as a feeble chuckle.

"Of course you quote the bible when you're drunk," Santana teased, but it fell on deaf ears. Quinn's anxiety had a complete grip on her as her hand balled into a fist in Santana's lap. Her mouth bent into a frown and tears began to brim the bottom of her hazel eyes. Before she knew it, Quinn launched herself forward and clambered into her lap. She curled up into her chest, face pressed into her neck, and one hand snaking around her waist. If she was crying, she was doing the quiet sort, the Fabray internalized emotions special.

Santana's arms instinctively held her in place. They rubbed circles across her shoulder blades and performed other customary consolation tasks. She had been here before herself, under a different set of complications, but at this fork nonetheless, and yet, she was at a loss with Quinn. She could try and package her own fuck-ups as nuggets of wisdom, but Quinn was upset and drunk and any attempt at grabbing the wheel of this ship in a storm would be useless. The soft brushing of lips on her skin were accompanied by a string of sounds, she suddenly realized.

"I want you to come with me. Come with me, San, please," Quinn mumbled, over and over like a mantra.

Santana urged her out of hiding, and was met with a face riddled with despair. Quinn looked up at her and pleaded for her to understand and pacify this maelstrom of terror inside of her.

"Tell me what's wrong, Q, please," Santana entreated.

Quinn swallowed what was probably a lump in her throat, and said, vocal chords ragged, "I-I want you to come with me to the kingdom, San. I don't want to go there without you." Her nails dug into Santana's neck for emphasis.

Santana sank into the gravity of the situation like an ice bath. The tiny gold cross stuck to Quinn's dewy skin and just glistened innocently in the dim evening light. It was so small but stood so formidably between them. No matter what they were doing, it was always there, no matter how naked she stripped Quinn down, both literally and figuratively. Rain or shine, night and day, there it always hung, an actual cross Quinn bore, again, in both turns of phrase. She couldn't fix this, it was bigger than whatever had grown and flowered between them. There was nothing to say to tie this all up with a neat little bow and go get some fro-yo with extra sprinkles.

So, she flattened the back of Quinn's head like her own mother always used to, and that seemed to stop the strange, staggered breathing. Quinn still gaped at her expectantly.

"Well then, you let me know when the rapture bus shows up, so I can throw my best heels in a bag and get on it with you," Santana told her firmly. It was all new to her, but she tried to be warm, soothing. She adjusted Quinn in her lap and added, "I go where you go."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Quinn's face.

"That's not really how it happens," she scolded her. Santana's shoulders dropped at the ease in tension, and a shrug shook off the rest. It was still there, woven into the muscles of Quinn's back, but she was calm now at least, the bubble had burst. Her hands were draped loosely around Santana's neck, a few strands of blond hair fell over her cloudy eyes, and she had a pale blue bra on, a new one that now had a dark fruit juice blotch on the right side. Santana decided she wanted to remember all these things.

Quinn glided forward and kissed Santana lightly, whose eyes fell shut at the contact.

"I'm serious," Quinn uttered as she pulled back.

Santana's eyes fluttered open. It was her turn to plead with Quinn to understand, to will her to see what she couldn't say. Quinn deserved epic poems proclaiming unconditional love, doves flying around, some sort of carriage. Santana never really thought she had any of that in her, but for this girl, this infuriating blonde with her big words and stupid morality clauses, she might.

"I'm serious, too," she insisted, with a tell tale twitch of her brow. She was serious; getaway car, Gone with the Wind, jump-off-the-cliff-with-you serious. Quinn was hurting, and she couldn't remedy any of it but she could be there with her. She could promise not to leave, that she would stand by her through the storm, if Quinn would have her. That big emotional declaration of emotion would have come in handy right in that instant.

Santana pressed a kiss loaded with all these sentiments to Quinn's salty lips, and supposed that would have to do for now.


End file.
